Counting the Aphids
by Joo Lee
Summary: Sherlock enters into a dangerous compact to save his "heart." Post TRF. SERIOUS violence/slash BEGINNING IN CHAPTER SIX. Early on, just naughty words and uncomfortable situations. Be ye warned: Non-Con, Drug Use, Self Harm, Mental Illness, PTSD, and a bit of child abuse. REVIEWS CONTAIN SPOILERS. MorLock, MorMor, eventually a bit of JohnLock, just a whisper of KittyLock. DFTBA!
1. Introduction

**Introduction**

_In which Sherlock walks into Moriarty's web, knowing full well what he's doing. Doesn't mean he has to like it._

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"One demerit," a voice coos, somehow managing to sound as if it's just above his head, though he knows he's alone. He drops the tiny shard of plastic in his right hand – _bounces twice, coming to rest exactly 3.5 inches directly in front of his right knee -_ sighs loudly, and sits back on his haunches in the darkened room.

Sherlock knew he'd be caught. Didn't actually expect any other outcome, but he'd been so dreadfully _bored_. Bored beyond reason, quite literally this time.

They'd taken his dirty red hoodie, shoes, and belt, but left him with the rest. His shirt had buttons – buttons that could be bitten in half, eventually - and used to pick the lock of the room where he was being held.

"You didn't say I couldn't _try_ to get out of this room, Moriarty." Sherlock grinds the words out between clenched teeth. "You only said I wasn't to leave this house."

"Ah, you clever hair-splitter, you," Moriarty replies warmly, almost affectionate. "Let me make this very simple. You stay where I put you; you do what I tell you. Now, as for your demerit … yes. I know exactly. Let the punishment _suit_ the crime. Sherlock, take off your clothes."

"What?!" Sherlock, sounding both surprised and not a little indignant, huffed out the word.

Moriarty sighed patiently. "Sherlock, I know you've been through quite a scare, what with being dead and all. Or playing dead, anyway. But we have a very simple contract to which you agreed without hesitation. I expect you to honor it. So, my dear Holmes, remove your clothes RIGHT FUCKING NOW!"

Moriarty's voice boomed around the small room _- three meters square three-and-a-half high -_ as Sherlock stood slowly in the darkness. - _I did not agree to your contract without hesitation, you dark fuck. But I did agree to it, didn't I?_

His hands pulled at the buttons of his shirt – _organic silk dark purple verging on burgundy –_ and he slipped it off his shoulders and dropped it to the floor. The room – _no windows one door no unusual features probably a closet at one time - _was cold, but not excessively so. He unbuttoned, and then unzipped his faded jeans before stepping out of them. Almost as an afterthought, he took off his socks. He paused.

"And the pants," Moriarty's voice, bored.

Sherlock obliged, toeing them into the pile with his shirt and jeans. Looking every inch as disinterested as he felt with this latest game, he stared up at the ceiling where he imagined there must be an infrared camera – _sound likely coming from two speakers if so two corners for speakers two for cameras one standard one infrared makes the most sense –_ and shrugged. "Well?"

"Well what?" Moriarty was beginning to sound distracted. "Oh. Sit facing the wall opposite the door. Someone will come round to fetch your clothes."

Sherlock did as he was instructed. Crossing his legs and resting his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers under his chin, and waited.

_Bored._

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**NEW AN (November 16, 2012): **_I changed the chapter titles because this one is so short, and it serves more as an introduction than a full chapter. No other changes except for moving the notes to the bottom of each chapter._

**DFTBA_  
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	2. Water Closet

**Water Closet**

_Sherlock has a chat with Moriarty over tea, and meets one of Jim's pets._

* * *

According to his internal chronometer, Sherlock had counted thirty-seven minutes and twenty-two seconds before he heard a bolt slide in the doorframe. _- Solid oak construction likely. Surprisingly soundproof nonetheless. How was that achieved? -_ The door opened – _outward, yes previously a closet, pantry or cupboard –_ and someone took a step inside to retrieve his clothing. _- Still impossibly dark, even with the door open. File that for later. -_ He stayed still, facing the wall, and heard the scrape of a fingernail on the wooden floor as the person gathered the clothes.

"Kitty Riley," Sherlock remarked flatly.

Kitty stilled, then answered disdainfully, "And what did your oh-so-clever mind pick up that gave me away?"

"I observed the scrape of unkempt nails on the floor, and the unmistakeable scent of a particularly cheap body mist: 'Cotton Candy Fantasy.'" He continued quickly, "Still one of 'Richard Brook's' minions, then?"

She set several items on the floor, then replied "Are you surprised? Not as stupid as you thought I was, am I?"

_One medium-sized porcelain container and two plastic items. One clearly a cup with hot tea; cream, no sugar. Floor: hardwood slats, recently resurfaced and varnished. _

"No, I'm not surprised, and yes, you are **_every bit as stupid_** as I thought you were the moment we met." He smirked slightly at the wall.

"Yeah? Well … well I'm not the one naked and locked in a closet!" Kitty slammed the door. Sherlock heard the bolt shoved back into place, and thought about the draft he'd felt as the door closed. If the room was so well soundproofed, where was the fresh air coming from?

As if Moriarty knew what he was thinking – _he probably did –_ the voice was back. "You're wondering about ventilation? Yes, of course you are." As if by way of answer, Sherlock felt air begin blowing on him from the ceiling. _- Cold air. Tedious ploy. -_ He cocked his head to the side and looked up, knowing he'd see nothing. He determined the vent was dead center of the ceiling, based on the direction of the airflow.

"You **can** get up now, you know. Kitty-cat won't be visiting you again anytime soon." Moriarty said, as if Sherlock should have known as much.

He rose and walked back and forth, stretching his long legs; his suspicions as to his location had been confirmed by dull, predictable Kitty Riley. "So. You still have her in your employ. Isn't she something of a liability?" Sherlock asked.

"I told you I should get myself a live-in one. I did. She's every bit as hilaaaaa-rious as I expected. Fantastically normal."

Moriarty was starting to sound weary of the conversation. Sherlock changed the subject while he still held Moriarty's attention. "Is the plan to freeze me into submission, then? Literally leave me in the dark? Really, I thought you'd do better. Terribly pedestrian."

"Noooo … " Moriarty trailed off, his attention clearly waning. He sighed. "Maybe I'll go play with your beloved pet for a while, and ..."

"**No,**" Sherlock interjected forcefully. "We have a contract, as you recently pointed out. Leave him out of this." He felt himself tremble slightly, his cheeks warming with unwanted anxiety. He took a deep breath and steadied himself. "Well?"

He heard Moriarty exhale into the microphone. "Yes, well, I suppose we do. It's just that … why'd'ya have to be so boring so soon? It's only been a short while, you know."

"Yes, approximately forty-seven hours and fifteen minutes," Sherlock replied, his tone more sure now that he'd secured Moriarty's promise not to hurt John. After all, that's why he was here in the first place. Why no one knew he was still alive, save Molly; not even John.

And why the fact of his survival would stay hidden for up to a year. No longer. At least according to the contract he'd negotiated ... but negotiated was perhaps too strong a term, since Moriarty held the most important card: John's life. But it was something. In truth, it was the only thing he had to cling to once he'd allowed himself to be placed under Moriarty's control.

"Verrry good, Sherlock. Very good." Moriarty broke into Sherlock's thoughts. "Now why don't you go see what dear Kitty has left you." It wasn't a suggestion.

Sherlock stood straight as he walked toward where he'd heard the items being deposited on the floor. He stopped and knelt down, feeling for each item in turn. The tea was easiest, its aroma still strong in the room. He picked it up and sipped at it, the richness of the cream surprisingly compelling. He hadn't eaten for at least a day before Moriarty contacted him; it occurred that he must be hungry. He set the plastic cup down slowly, feeling for the other plastic item he supposed was next to it. A litre bottle – water, certainly, by the shape of the bottle. He snapped open the lid and took a sip. It was water, and neither it nor the tea tasted of any kind of drug.

Finally, the porcelain item. It had sounded quite like a soup tureen, but – _no, not a –_ there was no reason for such a thing to be delivered to him – _it can't be. _As he touched the bowl tentatively, his worst fears were confirmed: it was a chamber pot. Empty: for now. Clean: for now.

He wrinkled his nose slightly, already repulsed by the fact that he would undoubtedly be sharing this small space with his own … waste.

Moriarty's voice came through the speakers again. "I know how picky you are about staying tidy, my dear. I hope my gift suits your tastes. It's quite upmarket – antique, in fact. Too bad you can't see the floral pattern. It's quite lovely."

There was a brief crackle as the microphone was turned off, then silence. Sherlock mused that he'd gained at least a little data from the last ten minutes. It would keep his mind engaged for probably the same length of time, but it was something. He reached again for the tea, and wondered how accurately he could estimate the length of time before he had to use the pot.

Not long, certainly. He sipped the tea and shuddered slightly.

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**AN:**_ Sorry Chapter 2 took a day longer than expected – iSpilled(!) - water on my MacBook. It's bad. I set up my iMac yesterday, and now I'm mostly back on track. Thanks for your patience!_

_Constructive criticism greatly desired._

**DFTBA**_  
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	3. Fishing Cats and Other Wild Things

**Fishing Cats and Other Wild Things**

_A lot of anger, more anxiety, a dash of hope - and not much to show for it._

* * *

John paced Lestrade's office and listened to Greg tell him to "be reasonable" for what felt like the five hundredth time in the past three days. John Watson was not in a reasonable mood.

"I'm telling you – I am **TELLING** you – he was there. He **was**." John's nostrils flared slightly as he tried to calm himself. He knew his demeanour and appearance weren't going to win him any "Mr. Rational" awards. John was trying very hard to care how he looked, but this was too important. Too personal.

"Look, John," Lestrade's voice and manner were calm and sympathetic. It was driving John mad.

"I am not some timid old lady who had her purse snatched! I was kidnapped. I was! You don't believe me?" He rolled up his sleeves, showing the contusions on his wrists.

"John." Lestrade was less patient this time. "John, of course we believe you were kidnapped. It's just that -"

John cut him off again. "Just what? You don't think he was there? You don't think I … "

"You **what**, John? You said you couldn't see anything the whole time. How could you have seen him?"

"I didn't say – I – I didn't say that I **saw** him. I … " John exhaled forcefully, pressed at the bridge of his nose with thumb and forefinger, then moved his hand to his hairline. He began tugging again at his normally tidy hair, completely disheveled now. "I didn't see him. But -" he added quickly, before Lestrade could speak, "I could tell he was there. The kidnappers were taking me to the meeting Mycroft set up, and they walked me right past him. Sherlock. Was. There."

Lestrade just sat behind his desk and regarded him silently. _Poor bugger,_ he thought, _our Doctor Watson's finally lost it._ God knew everyone wanted Sherlock back – or at least, anyone who truly knew him. Truth be told, then, only a select few wanted him back, but Greg was most certainly one of them. The doctor's progressive downward spiral over the past three months was reason enough for those who hadn't known or particularly cared for Sherlock to want him back.

"And – **And**" Watson continued loudly, pulling Lestrade from his musings, "why kidnap me? They didn't ask me anything, didn't ask for a ransom, yet they called Mycroft to negotiate my release. It doesn't make any bloody sense! Unless I was just means to an end. And I can't imagine what other end my kidnapping would serve," John took a breath, steeling himself to say what he was still afraid to believe, "if not to flush Sherlock out of hiding."

"John … " Lestrade looked up to the ceiling as if praying for strength. "John, you saw. You saw what happened at Bart's. How could someone – even someone as clever as him – how could they fake that and 'go into hiding'? Even if it could be done, why would he?"

"Greg," John began, his voice finally cracking. Lestrade could see John's hands begin to tremble, and he suddenly looked very small and frail standing in the DI's office.

"Look, just sit here, mate. Sit down before you fall down," Lestrade said, guiding him to the chair facing his desk, affording John a little protection from prying eyes. There wasn't much privacy in his office, but at least facing away from the windows, John wouldn't have to break down in full view of everyone of the floor.

* * *

Sherlock lay curled in on himself in a corner of the closet. He was cold. He'd drunk the tea and the water. He'd finally had to urinate into the chamber pot – _two hours nine minutes after the tea and water plus forty-seven hours fifteen minutes of captivity plus – _Sherlock sighed, squinting into the inky dark of the room – _oh, what did it matter. _

By all logic, this had to be what Moriarty wanted; uncomfortable, apathetic … in perfect condition to make stupid mistakes. He scratched at his chin, feeling the stubble beginning to grow there. It itched. His head itched too, hair falling in oily curls, some sticking to his scalp. He was sure the smell surrounding him wasn't just the pot; he was probably rather ripe himself.

Moriarty was right about one thing – he did like to keep tidy. Fastidiously so, except when necessary for a case. He ran his tongue across his front teeth. _- Disgusting. -_

...

It wasn't until he heard the bolt slide again that Sherlock realized he'd fallen asleep. He smelt Kitty Riley's pungent body spray and realized immediately that she was carrying something – _a ceramic bowl, perhaps_ – with liquid sloshing about inside it.

"Christ, you stink!" Kitty exclaimed as she took a step into the room, then another.

Sherlock's brain had had enough, and promptly went on holiday. His retreating rationality was just as suddenly replaced by emotion – pure, blissfully uncomplicated rage. Still lying on the floor he kicked out, knowing exactly where both the chamber pot was, and where Kitty stood. His foot didn't miss its target, and he felt grim satisfaction when he heard the splash and her shriek of disgust.

"You're not smelling so fresh yourself, Miss Riley."

Her reaction was as swift and violent as he'd expected from someone accustomed to acting without thinking. He felt the ceramic – _porcelain jug filled with warm water – _smash into the left side of his head, then nothing.

…

Sherlock woke to searing pain and the smell of blood. He tried to sit up and quickly realized that was not presently an option. He was still lying curled on his right side, so instead he reached out with his left hand and tentatively felt the floor for shards of porcelain from his – _foolish, stupid – _encounter with Kitty. He found none, and discovered the floor was bone dry _- at least half an hour for the floor to dry totally even after being mopped up with a towel, so unconscious at least that long, probably longer. _By the smell, he surmised that the chamber pot had also been removed. He gently probed at the side of his head, wincing when he came across several lacerations and a large bump, but little blood. Someone had time to clean his head, as well.

He'd gained nothing by his actions but pain and time loss – _what the hell were you thinking! -_ The room was still very cold, very dark, and he was still naked and in urgent need of washing up. He had to stifle a groan when he heard the bolt slide out of the wall just a few minutes later, and the slight 'pop' he'd come to recognize as Moriarty's microphone being activated.

"You weren't very nice to my kitty, Sherlock," Jim sing-songed at him. "She scratches and bites, you know. You should be more careful. Unless, of course, you're into that sort of thing."

Riley stepped into the room again, her steps hesitant this time. She was carrying what Sherlock was now certain was another porcelain jug filled with water. "D'you know, Sherlock, tigers don't mind getting wet. They actually swim, just for fun sometimes. So does one called a Fishing Cat, but I've never seen it." He paused. "As you've noticed, **this** kitty doesn't like getting wet. Not one bit. You've made her very angry, Sherlock. She only came to help you get clean, and look how you treated her." Moriarty clucked his tongue reproachfully.

"Now, this really should earn you a demerit, but since I technically never told you **not** to splash Kitty with urine -" Kitty stamped her foot quietly and huffed out a breath, not liking the direction Jim's conversation was taking "- well, you still deserve some sort of punishment." He said it as if he'd just decided something. Sherlock was certain he wouldn't enjoy it.

"Face the wall, Sherly, and put your hands behind your back." Sherlock winced, as much at the name as the order. He tried to comply, shifting slowly while still lying on his side. "Noooo," Moriarty said, as if speaking to a child, "sit up."

Sherlock turned and scooted slightly away from the corner. Lifting his head as little as possible, he felt his way up the wall with his hands and finally managed a sitting position with his legs folded against his chest, pressing them against the wall for balance. He put both hands behind his back and rested his head on his knees, fighting nausea caused by the pain and dizziness that had awakened him only minutes before.

He felt Kitty roughly pull his arms further back, pressing the insides of his wrists together before using a zip tie to secure them firmly in place. Sherlock tried to think of something to distract from the ever more painful and humiliating situation, but his mind was not being helpful. He sighed quietly and closed his eyes. He couldn't see anything either way, but it usually helped him to focus, or to escape his surroundings when needed. He desperately sought entrance to his Mind Palace, nearly frantic when it was nowhere to be found through the haze of pain in his head. Finally, he could sense it, feel himself moving toward it. His physical self quickly faded from his thoughts.

The last thing Sherlock heard was Moriarty. "It's time for your bath now, Sherly. Can't promise Kitty will be gentle, though. You might like it. I can't say. But I'm dying to find out."

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**AN:**_ Thanks for reading and following - and especially for the favorites! I hope you're having fun, cos Sherlock and John sure aren't ...  
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**DFTBA**_  
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	4. Something Special Planned

**Something Special Planned  
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_In which Sherlock would gladly have traded being clean for being left alone._

* * *

"_Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop." _

_I'm not on the roof. I'm falling. I'm throwing a nameless corpse off the roof. I can't see it. But I can see it, because I know its trajectory and the physics of falling. It is arms and legs flailing, a human scarecrow. Fooling my "audience." Fooling John. He saw what he expected to see, what I wanted him to see. I hate myself for it. _

_Sentiment. I pretended not to notice. Kept myself distant until I couldn't. Until there was John. I couldn't drive him away, no matter how many insults and disgusted looks I threw his way. No matter that I left him behind at crime scenes, kept thumbs in the vegetable drawer, and insulted his blog. He refused to abandon me, like the others did. The ones I'd pretended I didn't want as friends, lovers, family. He understood (understands) me, and he likes (loves) me anyway. Bastard. I hate him. I'll do anything for him._

Sherlock felt himself pulled back into his body. It didn't make much difference to him, since all he could think about was John. _- And how I betrayed him. -_ He knew he couldn't escape into his mind for long. He needed quiet to focus inward. It was a weakness he had yet to overcome.

Kitty Riley was talking to him. "On your back, I said!" He was lying stretched out on his stomach, wrists still held fast behind him. He could feel water dripping from his back and legs. She clearly wanted this over with, so he hadn't been away from his 'transport' for long. Kitty pushed at him until he was on his back. He took in a sharp breath, the pain from his trapped wrists shooting up into his arms and shoulders.

He tried another tactic to block out his situation, focusing on every detail. The first thing Sherlock noticed was that he was shaking, from cold, hunger or concussion, he surmised. Likely all three. The second was that Miss Riley was having no difficulty finding him, the water pitcher, bowl, or the rough washing cloth she was presently scrubbing him with. He instantly knew what had been edging around his consciousness since she walked in the first time – she could see him. The room was black as pitch, and so was the hallway beyond, but she could see him. How?

Moriarty certainly had a camera in the small room that allowed him to see Sherlock in the dark, so it stood to reason that she had some sort of glasses or goggles that let her do the same. He imagined she looked terribly odd, wearing awkward goggles while washing a naked, bound man on the floor of a closet.

Then again, how was the hallway kept so dark? Not a sliver of light to be seen when the door was closed, but that could easily be accomplished. How so when the door was open? It struck Sherlock that though this had once been a closet, it had almost certainly also served as a darkroom. The hallway had to have blackout curtains – several of them – in order to protect the unprocessed film and unused photographic paper. It would also explain why the floor had been recently resurfaced; the chemicals in the developer would eat away at porous wood flooring over time. If they'd been redone, the walls probably had as well, explaining the absence of the tell-tale, acrid odor of a darkroom.

One mystery solved, Sherlock returned to the present at exactly the wrong moment. Kitty was washing his genitals, making quick, haphazard swipes at him with the cloth. He couldn't suppress a twitch of discomfort as she pulled his pubic hairs, trying to finish the job as fast as she could, mumbling about doing Jim's dirty work.

"Why are you doing it, then?" He said, carefully pitching his voice to sound as if he cared what Kitty Riley thought. She stood up above him, and he heard the plop of the wet cloth into a bowl a few inches from his head.

He heard a wooden chair scraping along the floor as she dragged it in through the open door. "Jim has something special planned for you."

Anxiety began to coil in his gut. He ignored it. "Yes, but **why** are you doing this?"

"You're 'The Great Sherlock Holmes,' you tell me. Roll over." She prodded at his side with a stockinged foot until he managed to make it back onto his stomach. The rolling about combined with his earlier injury was starting to make him feel seasick.

He was startled by the speed and strength with which Kitty pulled him up by his arms and tossed him over the seat of the chair, his head hanging over one side, legs the other. The head-rush and sudden movement left him panting as he felt his mouth over-salivating in preparation to throw up.

"Oh, no you don't!" Kitty yanked his head back by his hair. Sherlock groaned and gasped in a breath, certain he'd be choking on his vomit any second. Instead, his throat spasmed a couple of times, and he burped. He didn't feel much better, but less likely to be ill right that moment. "Jim thought you might need this," she said, holding his hair with one hand and, he guessed by the sound, fishing in a pocket of her jeans with the other.

"Here, chew this up." She pushed a small pill into his half-open mouth. He tried to let it fall from his tongue, but she pushed his jaw shut and held him there, one hand in his hair, one under his chin. "Eat it," she ordered. "It'll keep you from being ill."

Sherlock chewed it quickly and swallowed, eyes watering from Kitty's hand pulling his hair.

Once she was satisfied he'd taken the medication, she released her grip and his head fell forward over the seat again. "Why ... Wh-what are you …?" he said, exhausted, still panting from nausea. His half-formed question was answered when he heard her reach down and move the bowl, then lift up the pitcher. She splashed the water from the pitcher onto his head.

He spluttered a bit as the cold, soapy water rushed over his hair and onto his face, running into his mouth and dripping from his nose into the bowl below. Kitty rubbed at his hair and scalp for a few seconds, clearly disinterested in the task. When her fingers moved over the injured spot on his head, he sucked in a pained breath through his teeth. Tiny electric shocks crawled over the left side of his face. Another pitcher full of water washed over his head – _just water this time. Why didn't I notice she had a second pitcher, or a bowl? – _He shuddered and breathed in rapid, panting gasps as the cold water dripped off his head, taking the soap with it.

He'd stiffened when the cold water hit him, so he tried to relax his muscles, noticing how his legs hung off the chair, his knees almost touching the floor. He could barely feel his hands except for the occasional tingling sensation, and his head was throbbing from hanging over the other side of the chair. Sherlock tried to control his breathing, so he could be more observant of the things beyond his body – _mind over matter – _than of his many aches and pains.

"Right. Well, I'll be off," Kitty said, picking up several things from the floor – _washbasin, cloth, __**two**_ empty _pitchers –_ and moving from the room. She returned momentarily. "Almost forgot," she said. Sherlock felt a tug at his wrists, heard the snip of scissors, and his arms were free. "I'll need this too," Kitty told him, tipping the chair and sending him sprawling to the floor, his arms too numb to break his fall. She dragged the chair out, pushed the door shut, and locked him in.

He pressed his forehead to the floor, grateful he hadn't hit his head on the way down, and counted his breaths, grasping for any self-control before he spiraled into panic. Her words echoed back to him: "Jim has something special planned for you." Not for the first time, his eidetic memory wasn't helping him at all.

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**AN:**_ It's starting to get a little hectic in this chapter, folks. Things are very not-pleasant for Sherlock Holmes, and it seems they're only getting worse … for a while, anyway. No sex (yet), just violence. Be ye warned._

_Thank you followers, favorite-er, and reviewers - I'm very flattered, and having a lot of fun playing with our boys!_

**DFTBA**_  
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	5. One, Two, Three

**One, Two, Three**

_1. Mycroft breaks out the good scotch, 2. Moriarty sets up the game pieces, 3. Sherlock is dangerously bored._

* * *

Greg Lestrade and John Watson entered the Diogenes Club at half past eight that evening to meet with Mycroft. He met them in the entryway, and led them to his favorite room.

Mycroft had initially hesitated, but agreed to see John at DI Lestrade's urging. The Detective Inspector had called the elder Holmes to explain that he hoped if they worked together to convince John he hadn't been in the same room with his best friend that he might believe it. They both knew he hadn't even begun to heal from the loss.

Three months had done little to improve John's depression after watching his friend plunge to his death. He still woke up from the nightmares, added on top of the others he'd only recently begun to forget. They were back in force now. Greg had taken John to his flat for a few nights when he'd said he couldn't go back to Baker Street, and heard the shouting and muffled sobs through the night.

Mycroft gestured towards large, comfortable-looking chairs, then began without preamble. "Doctor Watson, I truly wish I had more information to offer you. I have no idea why your abductors chose to contact me, except that they knew you and my brother were … flatmates. It is somewhat confusing that they asked for no ransom, but it would seem that something disrupted their plans. They needed to be rid of you, and did not wish to end your life. I set up a meeting at the warehouse in Addlestone, that was all. You know the rest." Mycroft carefully avoided the fact that John had been found at the same abandoned sweets factory where Sherlock had led detectives in their search for the U.S. Ambassador's missing children. That would risk bringing up too much of the unpleasantness that followed their discovery.

"Oh please," John said, "you don't even believe me. You're not even _trying**.**_ Not one of your 'people' are searching for him. Why can't you even consider the idea that he might not be – that Sherlock might not be dead?" John took a deep breath, his hand to his forehead. He waved away the brandy Mycroft offered, standing and pacing as he'd done in DI Lestrade's office.

"Nothing would bring me more relief," Mycroft began. John rolled his eyes and snorted in disgust. "Than to find my brother, whole and alive," he continued. "However, I have had to face the unpleasant reality that even he could not have survived that fall. His intellect could not shield him from the laws of gravity."

"Laws of gravity?!" John was shouting now, and he didn't care. "I used to wonder at your brother's ability to behave like a Vulcan. Now I know where he got it. How could you say that – much less say it to me? To stand here and make quips about your only brother's death! Jesus ..." His angry outburst at Mycroft seemed to have taken all of his energy, and he finally fell into a chair, hands over his eyes, slowly shaking his head.

"John," Mycroft said, in a measured and quiet voice, "I apologise. I know my manner can be cold at times, but please do not think that I was not deeply affected by my loss – all of our loss. But the truth is that my brother is … gone. His last known location is a quiet corner of our family's burial plot." His mask of calm slipped fractionally as he sipped his brandy, and looked out the window into the darkness.

Neither Mycroft's willingness to meet him, nor his statements carried any weight with John. Even Lestrade thought it was strange that Mycroft would use the wording he did.

"Why did you even bring me here, Greg? He didn't believe me when I told him then, he doesn't now, and neither do you. You're both wasting my time. Sod this – I'll find him on my own!" John Watson stood and strode quickly out of the room, managing to hail a cab before Lestrade could catch up with him.

Greg stood in front of the club, watching the taxi as it drove away, then got into his car. He gripped the steering wheel tightly for a few moments, lost in his own thoughts. Finally, he shook his head as if to clear it, started the car, and drove away.

Mycroft, for his part, set down his brandy. He moved to the bar, removed a crystal decanter and a tulip-shaped nosing glass, and poured himself two shots of Dalmore 50 Year Old scotch into the glass. He eyed his mobile phone, on the table in front of him. He downed both shots in a single swallow, wiped at his eyes, and picked up the phone. "Patterson, I need you to take a message to the groundskeeper. Yes, at the cemetery. Tomorrow morning is fine. And Patterson – go alone."

* * *

Moriarty sat in his spacious library, watching a 30-inch computer screen, alternately giggling and staring silently at his new acquisition. Jim was dressed impeccably, as always. The room reflected wealth and classical taste, full of books and bronze busts of famous authors. It lacked Jim's modern, gauche flair.

His only obvious contribution to the room were two human skulls, one at either of the far corners of the huge mahogany desk at which he sat. To be fair, he got the idea for the skulls from Sherlock's flat. He rather liked them on the desk for their power to unnerve the few clients he allowed to meet him in person. When they asked where they came from, he had a different answer every time. "They're my friends," "My enemies," "My parents."

"Sebs!" Moriarty squealed in delight as a man walked into the room. He looked to be in his early 40s, a serious sort not given to mood swings or dashing off without thinking. He was the perfect opposing force to Moriarty's chaotic brilliance.

As the man approached, Moriarty stood and gestured to his own chair. "Please, Sebastian, do sit down. I've got an idea that may interest you." Sebastian sat in the desk chair, and Jim immediately joined him by sitting on his lap. Sebastian was unfazed, slipping his arm around Moriarty's hips and glancing towards the screen. Jim looked him over appreciatively. Sebastian Moran was taller than Moriarty by several inches; fit but not burly. He was sporting a well trimmed, mostly-ginger goatee and wore his rust brown hair in a short military cut. Sebastian's clothes were expensive, but not ostentatiously so. Jim tried to imagine how Sebs could be more attractive, and came up empty.

Moriarty finally returned his gaze to the screen, which Sebastian had been watching for the past minute. "And how is your new toy, James?" Sebastian asked, taking up Jim's hand and twining their fingers together casually, familiarity clear in both their movements.

James Moriarty took a slow breath, moaning slightly at the affectionate contact. "Ohhh, Sebs, I'm tired of him already. Just look at how deadly dull he is, sitting there naked, nursing a head wound. I want to see something exciting. Interesting. Disturbing. Anything really." Agitated now, Jim huffed like a child tired of waiting their turn. "I want my toy to dance for me!" He was whining now, voice high and nasal. "Sebs, please help me? You're **ever** so good with people."

Sebastian looked up into Jim's pouting face, and said blandly, "So you want to be entertained by your toy and your pet playing together, then. Dancing just for you?"

"Oh god no, Kitty's not sexy at all." Jim paused for a moment. "Oh Sebs, you **can't** believe I think of **you** that way … " They paused, both looking into each others eyes, unreadable. A smile crept over half of Moriarty's face while Sebastian tried to look hurt. They laughed.

"I know you'll enjoy him. Not a bad looking bloke, eh? A little thin, but still … I'd never leave you out, and you know me, I don't get my hands dirty. I like to watch. And I've got a funny game for the three of us to play. What do you say, Sebs?"

Moran favored him with a small smile, and Jim knew he'd join in. Moriarty leaned down to Sebastian's ear, and began whispering his plans, despite the emptiness of the room.

* * *

Sherlock groaned as he woke, cutting off the sound as soon as he became aware he was making it. _- How long was I out this time? Hair still half-dry but cold air slowing down the drying process … an hour? - _He hated having to estimate anything, but in his current situation he had to estimate almost everything. And so he estimated the ambient temperature of the room at about 14 degrees, but it could be colder, or warmer. He couldn't tell.

He was thirsty; very thirsty, and hungry as well. Sherlock knew it was affecting his ability to think and observe at anywhere near his optimum level, but it was of no consequence. He'd use what he had.

Sherlock moved from the corner, stretching gingerly. His hip was bruised from the fall, but his head felt better. He could still feel a knot on the left side, but it was smaller and his headache has mostly gone. What remained he chalked up to dehydration and exhaustion. Sherlock hadn't voluntarily slept in days – _five days? No more than six, no fewer than four – _He knew that lack of sleep was affecting his cognition as much as the lack of food, water, or warmth, but he didn't dare sleep. He needed data if he hoped to survive this game with Moriarty.

Sherlock moved slowly towards the door, on hands and knees to conserve his energy. He felt around in front of the door, but there was nothing there. No water. He hung his head, wincing with disappointment, and returned to the corner. He sat, his back pressed into it, folding his legs up against his chest and encircling them with his arms, once again resting his chin on his knee while he waited for something – _anything –_ to happen.

Sherlock knew it was dangerous to wish for something to happen in his current situation, but without anything to mull over … Sherlock swore he could feel his brain rotting. He slowly rubbed his stubbled chin and cheeks against one knee, then the other. He found the sensation slightly distracting, and kept doing it while he sat huddled for warmth. Sherlock was overwhelmed by a sudden and desperate desire for – _a seven percent solution –_ a cigarette.

He knew he was losing control of his most powerful weapon. His mind was turning inward, and it could very well tear him to pieces.

* * *

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**AN:**_ Thanks for the reviews and favorites and follows, oh my! Things are moving along, but not quite into true "Mature" rating territory yet. YET. Patience, my pretties._

**DFTBA**_  
_


	6. Too Dark for You?

_**CAUTION – now entering "Mature" territory. Very Non-Con sex. Very rapey. Non-Con Drug use. **_

Please be sure your seat backs and tray tables are in their full upright position, and turn of all electronic devices during our descent into Morlock madness. Seriously, though.

* * *

**Too Dark for You?**

_If it weren't for bad luck, Sherlock would have no luck at all._

* * *

**_1: Pa·tience noun_ _\ˈpā-shən(t)s\_**

_The quality of being patient, as the bearing of provocation, annoyance, misfortune, or pain, without complaint, loss of temper, irritation, or the like. _

**_2: Pa·tience noun_ _\ˈpā-shən(t)s\_**

_Any of various card games that can be played by one person._

_**3: Pa·tience noun \ˈpā-shən(t)s\**_

_Something I have very little of._

Sherlock was tired of reciting the definitions of the synonyms and antonyms that described his current state. It felt like he'd been at it for days. "Come **on**!" He shouted at the ceiling.

Nothing. _- Wait. Something. -_ He heard the scrape of the lock in the door, felt the rush of warm air as the door opened outward.

Sherlock sighed in relief, hoping it wasn't too obvious. Two people were outside the door. One was Kitty, the other a man he didn't know. They entered the room, carrying a piece of furniture – _by their awkward movements, a table, small and rectangular –_ then set it down and returned from the hallway moments later. He heard the familiar scrape of chairs being placed at either end of the table. They both left, and almost exactly three minutes later, Kitty returned alone, carrying something.

Sherlock was still sitting with his back to the wall, arms around his knees. His mouth opened slightly as he looked toward the doorway. He definitely smelled tea, and maybe food too. _- don't think about food don't think about food don't think about food –_ Kitty Riley set the tray down on the table, removed one of the items, and rolled it towards him. _- Plastic, bottle, WATER! -_ He grabbed at it, ignoring how he looked, and removed the lid in one swift motion. He paused for just a moment to sniff at the contents, and once assured it was water, he gulped it down as quickly as he could. He stopped halfway through the litre only because he started to choke on it and had to cough before he could continue.

Panting slightly from the effort and the relief of hydration, he looked towards Kitty. "What's this, Kitty. Am I to have dinner with Moriarty, now?"

"I was thinking we'd start with tea and see how it goes." Moriarty sing-songed as he entered the room. Sherlock heard the chair nearest him being pulled out. "Please, have a seat."

Sherlock grabbed the water bottle and stood up slowly, trying to ignore his cramped muscles. He placed a hand on the wall for support, stretching himself to nearly his full height, and remained there.

"Good, good," Moriarty purred. "Now take your seat."

Sherlock cautiously set his water on the table, then reached out for the back of the chair and found a thin, slippery material hanging over it. He picked it up, feeling for the edges of the fabric and discovered it was a dressing gown.

"You can put that on, if you like. Or stay as you are." Moriarty sounded as if he didn't care one way or the other. "It's not as if you have anything to be ashamed of, but there's an awful draft in here. Oh, and it's blue silk. Your favorite, yes?"

"It doesn't matter much what color it is if I can't see it," Sherlock reminded him, feeling for the sleeves of the gown. He pulled it on, noticing there was no sash to hold it closed. Wrapping it tightly around his thin frame, he sat down in the chair, arms across his chest.

"Ah, yes, dark. Is it, Sherlock? Too dark for you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock replied, irritated. He heard a teacup and saucer moved in front of him.

"Jeez, I was only _asking_. Why so sensitive?" Moriarty's voice was tinged with amusement. "Just cream with your tea, correct?"

Sherlock nodded slightly and reached for the cup and saucer. He felt Moriarty standing next to him at the table, but he was still too thirsty to care why. He drained the cup and set both the cup and saucer back on the table. He heaved a small sigh of appreciation at the lovely flavor that lingered on his taste buds, then felt a small pinch in his bicep, followed by a blooming, bruise-like feeling in his arm – _an injection. Obviously. - _

Sherlock turned his head sharply as if to look into Moriarty's eyes. "Drugs. Really? Why drug me? And why keep me in this room day after day? You've _**already**_ secured my promise to stay here, to help you with your crimes, and any other puzzles of your choosing."

"Because I don't believe you," Moriarty replied matter-of-factly. "Anyway, there's no need to get huffy, Curly-Sherly." Sherlock wrinkled his nose and pursed his lips at the sound of that name, much to Jim's delight. "Ahh, but you hated that one in school, didn't you? Not as much as your other nickname, though. What was that again?" Sherlock felt Jim leaning over him now. "Come now, you can tell me. I'll pour you another cup of tea." Jim was back to his sing-songing, cheerful persona. "And I've got a _lovely_ croissant here for you – it's got cream cheese in it. Starbuck's is brilliant, isn't it? So, what was that nickname again?"

Sherlock huffed, pretending to be irritated, but really he was hoping Moriarty was telling the truth about the croissant. His stomach growled in agreement.

"Girly Sherly. They called me Girly Sherly. At my first boarding school." He heard tea being poured into his cup. He gripped the edge of the table, trying to hide his hunger and impatience, waiting to see if the promise of food would be kept. At that moment, he felt another injection in his arm, two inches lower than the first. The contents of this syringe made his arm sting and itch almost immediately. "Wh – why do you keep giving me injections!?"

"Because I can't just mix all the contents up into one," is the reply. Moriarty sat, finally, opposite Sherlock at the table.

Sherlock's jaw muscles tightened, a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth. He exhaled slowly, trying to block out his body's reaction to hunger with the food so close by. "What. Did. You. _**Give**_. Me?" His voice was deep, devoid of emotion, but for a tiny hint of rage he was containing with difficulty.

"I really must insist you eat something before we get started," Moriarty said, pushing a plate over to Sherlock as if he didn't hear the question. Sherlock stared in the direction of Moriarty's voice, lips a thin line, his arms still hugging his chest. Moriarty sighed dramatically. "I'll answer your question while we eat. Really, I will!" Sherlock heard Jim sip at his tea, returning the cup to its saucer. "Go on, then."

Finally, Sherlock reached toward the plate, discovering that Jim had indeed kept his promise. He grabbed the pastry with both hands and bit into it, chewed a few times, and shoved more into his mouth. "Well?" Sherlock said, around a mouthful of croissant.

"Manners!" Jim exclaimed. Sherlock looked in Moriarty's direction and took another bite. The croissant was already half gone. He sighed his disappointment.

Moriarty began again."Fine. The drugs. Well, it'll be another 10 minutes or so before they take effect, so we might as well have tea and a chat while we wait."

Sherlock had finished jamming the food into his mouth and was licking the cream cheese from his fingers, though his mouth was still full of pastry. "My god, man, slow down! You'll make yourself sick. Anyway, you can have more … in a little while," Moriarty said cryptically.

Sherlock swallowed the last of the croissant and reached for his tea, finishing it off in three gulps. He took a breath to speak, but Jim cut him off. "Right. You were about to ask what I gave you … again. Predictable. Avomine, Diazepam, and Pethidine. And Ketamine. Oh, and a bit of cocaine, since I know how much you like it. Besides, I want you relaxed, not asleep, and I can't have your blood pressure getting too low. You can probably feel them working in you now. Interesting combination, wouldn't you say?"

"For what?" Sherlock said. "I mean," – _oh shit here it comes –_ "I mean what for? Combination for what?" He felt his skin prickling and sensed his muscles begin to relax against his will as a wave of dizziness hit him. "Fuck," he said. Sherlock blinked hard, squinting at nothing once he realized he'd said it out loud. His teeth were going numb.

"Sherlock, dear, have you become a lightweight? I think you're fast approaching totally wasted. But then it _would _take a few minutes longer, if you'd tend to your body's needs more regularly. I'd think with John being a doctor, he'd feed you up a bit better. But then you've been on your own a while, so I suppose any good he might have done you is lost by now." Moriarty's voice sounded wistful.

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose, and rested his arms on the table. "Fuck you. Shut up. John is … John is safe. I made him safe." He lifted his right arm off the table and clumsily pointed his finger at Moriarty. "You promise, em, _promised_."

"And what did _you_ promise, Sherlock?" He could almost hear Jim's smile, knew he wasn't making a hell of a lot of sense.

"I do … what you say. You leave John alone. That's what." _- oh god, I am __**dying**_ _for a cigarette. Must be the cocaine. Or the … damn, I forgot the others –_ "And Jimmy? May I call you Jimmy?" Sherlock didn't wait for an answer. "You promised me cigarettes. A pack. Yes."

Moriarty stood. "Oh did I now? Hmm. Be right back, my dear."

"With cigarettes!" Sherlock shouted after him. "Why is there no music? Bring some, yes?"

* * *

Sherlock became aware again and realized he was lying on the floor on his back. He still had the robe, but sensed the furniture had been removed. He kicked his legs out to be sure – _Ugh, still high as hell. That was stupid. –_ and regretted leaving his water bottle on the table. He had developed a terrible case of cotton mouth to match his cotton-filled brain.

The door opened – _it was closed?_ – and he heard Moriarty as if from a distance as he walked in. "You didn't think I forgot you, I trust." The door closed.

"Mmpff," Sherlock groaned. Speaking was too much effort. He swore he heard two men laughing, but knew in the back of his mind that only one man was in the room, and the only voice was Moriarty's.

"Well, let's get started then! So, on your back or on your stomach?" Jim sounded positively jovial.

"Nnnh?" Sherlock replied quizzically.

"Do you want to be on your back, or on your stomach?" Moriarty sounded impatient now.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no sound emerged. He turned his head, his eyes rolling up under his lids.

He heard a loud crack, felt the sting of the slap on his cheek a moment later. "NO SLEEPING!" Moriarty roared at him, loud enough to bring him fully into the moment, if blearily.

Sherlock felt Moriarty kneel, tugging at his dressing gown, then pushing him onto his side to pull it off.

He rolled from his side onto his belly, his mind finally comprehending what was happening and what was about to happen. He began breathing in short gasps and tried to stretch his arms out in front of him, but his left arm was still trapped by the silk robe. Moriarty kicked his legs, spreading Sherlock to make room for him between them, and knelt to finish pulling the robe off.

Sherlock pulled back with his left arm, and heard the fabric tear at the shoulder. "Careful!" Moriarty admonished, slapping his now-bare ass.

Sherlock gasped and let out a quiet whimper as Moriarty removed the last of the fabric covering him. – _oh no no god shit jesus fuck no –_ He willed himself to move, and was just able to lift his head, bring both arms in front of him, and claw at the floorboards with his fingernails. He bent his legs enough to plant his toes against the floor to push off as he tried to crawl away. All it took was Moriarty's hand at the small of his back and he was rendered immobile. His muscles were simply too weak to put up a fight.

"Look at you! Are you actually trying to escape?" Moriarty taunted, then turned serious. "And I thought we had a gentleman's agreement. And a contract. Ohhh wellll ... I wonder what John tastes like."

"N-no!" Sherlock managed to shout, hoarse from panting and dry mouth caused by the drugs. He rested his forehead on the floor, defeated. "No," he said quietly.

Without another word, Moriarty grabbed Sherlock's thighs and pulled until he knelt on elbows and knees in front of him. Sherlock realized then that Jim was also naked, as he was pressed back into Jim's pelvis, feeling the hair tickling him and Moriarty's erection pressed between his buttocks. He thought cloudily that Jim must have left the room to undress while the others removed the table and chairs.

"Here, hold this," Moriarty said matter-of-factly, pressing something into Sherlock's hand. It was a tube. Sherlock couldn't fathom why he was holding it until Jim removed the cap and squeezed it, then turned Sherlock's palm up and pressed something into Sherlock's hand. It was a blob of viscous goo - _oh god it's lube it's lube no nonono -_

"Don't lose that. You'll need it later," he whispered into the dark curls falling over Sherlock's ear. "Alright … " Moriarty paused momentarily, then moved back slightly. Sherlock gasped as three of Jim's lubed fingers moved into him at once. – _this is not happening this is not happening –_

"Wow, are you ever _tight!_ Now aren't you glad I gave you a muscle relaxant and painkillers?" Jim spoke conversationally, as if he wasn't moving three fingers vigorously in and out of his former rival's ass.

Sherlock could feel – he could _**see**_ – Moriarty's fingers stretch to impossible lengths, pressing up past his intestines, through his stomach to his oesophagus. He was choking on Jim's greased fingers, pressing all the way through him. Any moment he was sure they'd be poking out of his mouth. As another wave of the drugs rose through him, he fell forward from his elbows onto his shoulders and chest. He stared straight ahead, waiting for Jim's fingers to emerge from behind his teeth.

"Hey there, you're not sleeping, are you?" Jim leaned closer. "Oh. No, you're just tripping your brains out. Enjoy that."

Jim pulled his fingers out of Sherlock and moved to crouch beside him. "Here, give me your hand." He moved, pulling Sherlock by the wrist, his hand still holding the blob of lubricant. "Put it here," Moriarty said, guiding Sherlock's hand to his rigid cock and curling his lax fingers around it. "Now move your hand. Like you were bringing yourself off." Sherlock didn't have anywhere near the strength to tell him he almost never masturbated. Not that it mattered. Jim moved Sherlock's hand back and forth until he was satisfied, then allowed Sherlock's hand to fall back to his side.

"Not your best work, but it'll do. Ready?" Jim had already moved behind Sherlock once again, holding his thin hips tightly, lining himself up.

"No," Sherlock groaned, surprised he could speak after Jim's fingers had torn through his vocal cords.

"Good," Jim replied, pressing himself inside Sherlock, exhaling slowly with delight. "Ahh, my dear, I've waited -" he hissed slightly as he pulled back, then pushed even further inside "- waited far too long for this." He marveled at how tight, how hot, how soft Sherlock was. He wanted it to last forever, but knew that he'd be lucky to get a few minutes. Sherlock was a virgin, after all.

"How does that feel, then?" Moriarty's voice echoed in Sherlock's head, sharp as a blade, bouncing off the inside of his skull at crazy angles. For the moment, he had the presence of mind to realize it was a hallucination, even if he couldn't make it stop.

"Nnnooooo." Sherlock exhaled the word almost silently.

Moriarty laughed at that. "Well," he said, as a spasm of pleasure rolled through him, "our time is nearly over for now. Let's have a change of scenery." Jim leaned over Sherlock's limp form and pulled him up by the shoulders, pressing his chest to Sherlock's back. He wrapped both arms around Sherlock's chest just under his arms. Jim pressed a kiss to Sherlock's shoulder and resumed his languid thrusts.

Sherlock was too weakened to hold himself up, his head lolling back against Jim's right shoulder. Jim licked and bit at Sherlock's left earlobe, nuzzled his face into Sherlock's curls, smiling with satisfaction as he smelled soap and just a bit of blood from his earlier injury. It was too much for Moriarty. The smell of Sherlock's blood overwhelmed him, and he thrust sharply upward over and over as he came into him.

"We must do that again soon," Moriarty mumbled after the last wave of pleasure had crested over him. He nipped Sherlock's shoulder, licked his way up the corded neck muscle from his shoulder to his ear, then released him to fall bonelessly to the floor. Jim reached for the dressing gown as he stood, wiping himself off before tossing it to the floor again.

Moriarty opened the door. Sherlock distantly heard him in the hallway, sifting through items on a table. He leaned back into the room. Sherlock flinched slightly as something lightweight bounced off his forehead, followed by a clattering sound as something else hit the floor.

"Your cigarettes. As promised."

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**AN:**_ Anyone still here? For some reason these chapters keep getting longer. I was sure I'd have this one finished in two or three hours. Six hours later, I'm not ashamed to post it. Except for the naughty bits. (Oh, who am I kidding? **I love the naughty bits.**)_

_Thank you reviewers, favorite-ers, followers. Reviews, ideas, requests, and constructive criticism confirm my existence._

**DFTBA**_  
_


	7. Aphids

**Aphids**

_In which Sherlock and John find unexpected sources of help._

* * *

Sherlock pulled himself slowly into a corner and squashed into it as tightly as he could. He drifted in and out of consciousness. When he was awake, he was agitated and panicky, certain that Moriarty lied, certain he hadn't protected John at all, and everything happening to him was for nothing. When Sherlock slipped into unconsciousness, he felt Jim's breath on his neck, his voice whispering in his ear, his fingers pushing through him.

He jerked awake, still disoriented and panicked, but more aware than he'd been since he was drugged. Sherlock was sore all over, but it wasn't too bad. Yet. There was a sticky mess between his legs and on the backs of his thighs. He turned and felt the floor around him, frantically searching for the dressing gown he was sure had been left with him. He found it and discovered it had already been used by Jim. But Sherlock couldn't stand the thought of being so … soiled, and found a clean section of the gown to wipe himself off the best he could. He threw it as far away from him as possible, disgusted.

It occurred to him that he'd never been aroused during the – _attack, he fucking attacked me _– time with Jim. Sherlock supposed it could have been the chemical cocktail that was still making his head a bit spinny. Or perhaps he simply didn't enjoy – _men? rape? being buggered by his worst enemy? –_ the experience. He couldn't have enjoyed it, could he?

_- Too bloody confusing –_ Sherlock is at a loss to explain anything about the past 5 – _or more, or less. Fuck! –_ days, and he couldn't remember the last time he was so frightened. - _Baskerville. Doubt and drugs did me in. It's happening again. -_ Sherlock found himself in the middle of the room, crouching, pulling viciously at his hair, feeling strands between his fingers when he pulled his hands away. He was terrified beyond reason, and that scared him even more. He began hyperventilating, rocking on the balls of his feet, hands reaching into his bangs and pulling. Self-inflicted pain was the only control he had left.

"Ooooh, look who's awake!" Moriarty's voice purred through the speakers.

Sherlock jerked his head to stare at the ceiling, mouth curled into a snarl. "FUCK YOU! How _**could**_ you? Why – why would you do this?" He stood, using strength he scarcely had, and took the two steps to the door and kicked at it with his bare feet.

"Temper, Sherlock. Having a tantrum serves no purpose," Moriarty said mildly.

"Oh, yes, _you_ know all about purpose. Why have I been kept here for days, naked, in the dark, starving and dehydrated. And then you … y-you assault me? What purpose does that serve?" He tried for some control over his voice and pretended to be condescending. "Really, Moriarty, I'd have thought this would be beneath you."

"You were beneath me," Moriarty mocked.

Sherlock couldn't remember the last time that words failed him. He didn't care. He screamed in rage and frustration, and punched the door, over and over – _solid oak, definitely –_ until he could feel the blood running down his fingers.

"Sherlock, come now. Be reasonable." Moriarty spoke as if to a child, and it made Sherlock even angrier than he'd thought was possible.

"Why?! Why should I be _**fucking**_ reasonable, after all you've done to drive reason out of me! That's what this is about, isn't it? Drive Sherlock mad?" His voice cracked, and he stumbled away from the door, one hand to his forehead, the other outstretched. He was hyperventilating again – _still? –_ and a small groan escaped his clenched teeth with each exhaled breath. Aimlessly, he moved around the room until his foot nudged the pack of cigarettes on the floor, and he kicked them away.

"It's just a game, Sherlock. You know me better than that. I wouldn't do all this just to watch you squirm. It's a lovely sight, I must admit, but there is a purpose to all this. Have you figured it out yet?"

"Figured … out ..." The idea of something to work out caught Sherlock's attention. He stopped pacing, breath still ragged.

"You're upset. Why don't you have a smoke and think. It's just a puzzle, and a simple one really. I'm surprised you haven't put the pieces together yet. Solve the puzzle, and I let you have the run of the house, your clothes, food … all you can eat. But first you must solve the puzzle. Prove that you're worth the price I paid for you."

Sherlock growled quietly. He wanted those cigarettes, but didn't want to appear to be obeying Jim – _sod it _– He knelt and felt around for the pack. He soon found it, slightly dented. He opened the wrapper and pulled one out before realizing he needed the lighter he'd heard bounce on the floor earlier. He stuck the cigarette between his lips and kept one hand on the pack, feeling for the lighter with his other hand.

"Tick-tock, Sher-lock … what's the answer?" Moriarty asked.

"What's the question!?" Sherlock shouted back.

"How is it so dark in your room and in the hall, yet we can see you? I know you've noticed that much." Moriarty answered patiently.

He spoke around the cigarette planted firmly at the side of his mouth, still searching for the lighter. "THAT'S IT?! I figured it out ages ago." He began speaking quickly, feeling almost himself for the moment. "This room – MY room, as you've so quaintly put it – was first a closet, then a darkroom after the house was sold. When it was converted, they made sure there were no 'leaks.' That no light would get in to spoil the film or the photo paper. The ventilation in the ceiling gives it away. The room needed air circulation to vent the noxious chemicals, but since this used to be a closet, it didn't have any. They added the vent later."

"Then it was converted again, possibly because photography was going digital, more likely because the house was sold once again. To you. You had the walls scoured and repainted, refinished the wood flooring, and once all traces of a darkroom were gone, you replaced the door and locks with the sturdiest ones available and turned it into a prison cell. How do you and your minions see me? Obvious. You've installed a night-vision camera into the ceiling," he looked up, "in one of the corners, and Kitty and the other one wear night-vision glasses." Sherlock paused, remembering something. Moriarty couldn't have been wearing night vision glasses before. He would have noticed …

Moriarty continued before Sherlock could finish his thought. "Okay, good. Now how about the hallway?"

"Even simpler," He pressed on, ignoring the nagging thought. "You left the blackout curtains to the darkroom intact when you moved in. There are usually three heavy black curtains one has to pass through to enter a darkroom to protect the sensitive film and paper from unwanted light. Again, obvious."

He found the lighter and stood. He held it for a moment, waiting for Moriarty's reply.

"That. Is. Genius. Sadly, totally wrong. You still want everything to be so clever, don't you? I mean, attention to detail is admirable, but sometimes – sometimes you can miss the simple elegance of a rose because you're too busy counting the aphids."

"What kind of pop psychology bollocks is that?" He ground out, flicking the lighter. It didn't light. He tried again, but still no flame. He put his finger over the top of the lighter, feeling to be sure it was intact, and discovered it was warm to the touch. Sherlock knew it had been in the room long enough it shouldn't be warm. He pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, felt the blood drain from his face.

"You see now that your deductions were in error; that even Sherlock Holmes makes mistakes. That was the lesson. And I think you've solved the puzzle _now_, haven't you?"

"Clearly." Sherlock put the filter tip back in his mouth and flicked the lighter. There was still no flame, but he moved the lighter under the tip of the cigarette and inhaled. He tasted the smoke and heard the tiny crackles of the tobacco blooming into a coal. He exhaled slowly before replying.

"I'm blind."

* * *

John was up before dawn. He dressed and made a strong coffee, forced himself to eat a slice of toast, and was out the door just before sunrise. He'd never had Sherlock's luck, but after a few minutes he was climbing into a taxi and instructing the driver to take him to the cemetery where he'd been just a few months before.

He didn't want to go. His guts fairly heaved at the prospect, but something about Mycroft's manner – and what he'd said – was nagging at him. Something was definitely off. The cabbie pulled the car up to the kerb in front of the cemetery. John got out and passed the driver a fifty pound note, well over twice the fare. "Could you wait here, please? I won't be long." The driver nodded his assent, and John quickly turned to make his way to the Holmes family plot.

Mycroft had said that Sherlock's "last known location" was the family plot. Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it sounded to him a lot more like where he'd last been seen alive than where he was buried. He was hinting at something, John was sure of it. Maybe intentionally, maybe subconsciously, but hinting all the same.

John knew one thing very well – Sherlock's headstone was _not_ in the corner of their family plot. But there was a crypt in a quiet corner, and Sherlock had mentioned once how big it was, and how many generations of Holmes' were laid to rest there. John didn't remember how many. Sherlock would be appalled by his memory lapse, he thought as he walked to the ornate crypt entrance. It was all marble and stone, weeping angels – the works. He walked up to the gate in front of the crypt door, and noticed right away the lock had been changed recently. He reached out to grasp it.

"These things do rust off occasionally," said Mycroft, walking up behind him.

John whirled to face him. "Quite a coincidence, though."

"Quite, but a coincidence all the same," Mycroft drawled. "The locks have not been broken. They have, however, been picked." He held his hand out to John, who reached out and found two keys deposited in his hand.

John began fumbling with the lock on the gate, his hands numbed and trembling, barely able to hold the keys. "He was – is he here?" His voice was as shaky as his hands. He opened the gate and began working on the ancient lock that would open the inner door.

"_Someone_ was here. Beyond that, I cannot be absolutely certain, though I have my suspicions." Mycroft admitted.

"You knew." John stated. "How could you not tell me – tell anyone?!"

"As I said, I had my suspicions. I knew nothing for sure – even now, I don't know for certain that my brother was here." He paused. "I came here the day I learned you'd gone missing. I found the crypt just as it is now."

"Great," John said, putting his weight against the old metal door to coax it open. He made enough space for himself to slip inside, glad he'd followed his hunch and brought a small LED torch.

"John, I assure you that no one has been here since then," Mycroft called through the open door. "I asked the groundskeeper to look for any signs that anything nearby had been disturbed, or the doors opened. I've had a camera installed inside – it's always best to have at least two sets of eyes on a location."

"You had the _groundskeeper_ 'keep an eye out?'" John called back, incredulous.

"He's not just a worker here at the cemetery. He's one of 'my people,' as you might say."

"Then why tell me? Why drop hints to lead me here?"

"There are some items of interest inside, items which don't belong here. I do not recognize them. You were in-arguably closer to my brother than I have been in … some time. I wanted you to look at them, where I found them, to see if you might be able to confirm or rule out his presence."

John snorted, then actually laughed.

"I assure you, Doctor Watson, that I am serious."

"I believe you are, Mycroft. That's why I'm laughing." John walked back to the entrance and emerged with a book in hand. "You saw this, didn't you? The London A to Z?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied.

"It's been marked up. And not just locations and hours of operation – specific words on specific pages. See here -" he pointed to where he'd opened the book. "Page twelve, first word, circled: Nine." He huffed at Mycroft's blank look. "You've got to be kidding. You don't remember the jade hairpin?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Just – he was here, alright? I've confirmed it."

He turned to walk away, the book tucked securely under his arm, then stopped to return the keys to Mycroft. "I've got a cab waiting, so there's no need to stalk me in your Jag. But do let me know when you learn anything more, _**if it's not too much trouble?**_" With that, he spun on his heel and headed back to the cemetery entrance.

...

Mycroft stood a little longer, forehead wrinkling with trademark Holmes concentration as he re-fastened the locks on the crypt doors. He looked about briefly, then pulled out his mobile phone. He pressed a button and waited for the call to be answered.

"What is the status of the men who kidnapped Doctor Watson?"

"They're still not talking, sir," was the reply.

"Change that. Quickly. Do what needs to be done." Mycroft ended the call.

* * *

Sherlock had finished three cigarettes before he could stop berating himself for not knowing what should have been obvious to him. He finally laid the pack down and leaned against the wall.

The door opened, and he heard Kitty step in. "Looks like you solved the puzzle. Come on."

He reached down for his smokes and lighter, then followed the sound of Kitty's footsteps. The hallway was carpeted, and he felt warmer already. It was making him even more weary.

She stopped, took him by the elbow, and led him into a bathroom. "Get cleaned up. Your clothes are on the counter next to the sink. I'll be outside when you're done. Oh, and in case you're wondering, the window is locked and blacked out."

"Obviously." He said. The door closed, and Kitty walked away. Sherlock set his cigarettes on the counter top and felt his way to the bath, pain growing worse by the minute as the drugs wore off. He wanted to take a bath – _so hard to stand – _but he couldn't bear the thought of sitting in water infused with his blood and … other fluids.

He found the faucet, then stood to make sure there was a shower head. He found it, and lowered himself once more to turn the faucets, making the water as hot as he could stand. He pulled the lever to send the water up to the shower head, then stood again to step into the tub. Sherlock stumbled forward dizzily, barked his shins on the edge, and fell in.

He lay there, motionless, face down at the end of the tub, his legs still sticking halfway out on the other side. A feeling of utter defeat overwhelmed him. He couldn't allow himself to cry – he wouldn't. It would be the final straw. Moriarty could claim what had been done over the past days was all in service of a puzzle, but Sherlock knew it was a power play. Moriarty wanted to break him just enough that he'd be subservient, but not so much that his mind couldn't be put to use for Moriarty's purposes. Whatever they may be.

He heard footsteps rapidly approaching, but didn't bother to move as the hot water pounded down on his back.

Kitty entered. "Jesus! Were you trying to have a shower?"

"What do you care?" He said without venom, indeed vaguely curious why she would care that he fell.

"You should have known you couldn't stand up for that long after … what's happened."

Sherlock registered Kitty's discomfort with his treatment, sending it to his Mind Palace.

"Oh. Huh," he mumbled, his face half-pressed against the porcelain tub. "You didn't answer. My question." He wondered how long Kitty was going to stare down at him. He hoped the water was washing away some of the – _don't say it don't say it shut up shut up – _mess – _acceptable, go with that_ – from his backside.

Kitty sighed. "Because now I'll be the one bathing you."

"Doing Jim's dirty work again, then." Sherlock remained limp as Kitty Riley moved his legs until his whole body rested in the tub. The movement from his awkward position and the warmth on his sore legs felt so good. He regretted not moving sooner. – _Didn't want a bath though. The __**mess**_ _in the water. Dreadful. -_

"No, not his dirty work," she said. "You're my job. Jim wants you clean and dressed. You obviously can't do it yourself, so I'll be taking care of it."

"Uhhnn-nooo. No, please," he groaned, remembering the last time. His brain was just starting to clear the drugs, but hunger and exhaustion were taking an ever greater toll, and his practiced aloofness was tissue-thin. He realized then that he was very thirsty, and lying in a tub with water all around him. He tilted his head back and opened his mouth a bit to let the hot water drip in.

"Stop that. Just – just give me a minute." He heard her turn away and kept trying to drink the hot water, ignoring her. "Hey!" Kitty exclaimed.

Sherlock flinched and tried to curl up as best he could, waiting for her anger to boil over.

She sighed heavily, again. She sounded frustrated, but not angry. Still, he jerked away when she reached down to turn him onto his back. "I need you to sit up, or at least lean against the back of the tub. Come on, help me out. I have water for you."

At that, he propped his feet against the end of the tub and pushed, his upper body moving up the sloped side. The pain was still getting worse. But he wanted that water. He leaned against the back of the tub, finally, without putting too much weight on his backside. He reached out for the water. Sherlock could feel his hand shaking. He couldn't see himself, but by Kitty's reaction, he knew he looked bloody awful.

"Sherlock. Let me," she said, and he heard the snap of a plastic bottle opening about a foot to his right. He noted in the back of his mind that she'd called him by his first name _- sign of familiarity, sympathy -_ Sherlock reached out further towards it, resting his elbow on the side of the tub. Kitty snorted quietly, almost laughing. She folded his arm back into the tub, and slipped a hand behind his head to hold it steady as she brought the water to his lips.

Sherlock drank what he was offered greedily, though he hated needing help to lift a bottle of water to his mouth. He kept drinking until he'd finished all of it. He was panting again, weakly. "More?"

"Later." She replied simply, reaching above him. Sherlock heard her pull a few items – _three? Yes, almost certainly. Shampoo, soap, flannel –_ from a shelf somewhere over his head. His body stiffened involuntarily, anticipating rough handling; more pain as well.

She began by washing his hair, careful not to scrape against the cuts to the side of his head. He relaxed, slightly. She tilted his head back, filled a cup with water from the shower, and rinsed out the shampoo quickly and efficiently. He heard her soaping up a cloth. Her gentleness surprised him again as she rubbed the cloth over his face, scrubbing a bit at his stubbly beard, and carefully soaped his throat, chest, and arms, rinsing the blood from his knuckles. She moved to his stomach and pelvis, using a light touch over his bruised hips. She carefully wiped the soapy cloth between his thighs, then continued until his legs were finally clean.

"Time to help me again, Sherlock. I need you to turn over so I can finish." He found himself in a stupor, half-asleep, but tried to obey. Gentle or no, Kitty still wanted this over with quickly. She and the floor were certainly sopping wet by now, he thought, willing his sore legs and hips to turn so that she could lay him face down. She was truly strong for her size – _should have noticed that sooner, too –_ once he was on his stomach, she began by washing the back of his neck and working her way down. She paused. "You're in the tub, being showered with hot water. Why are you still shaking?"

"Tired," was his one-word reply. It obviously wasn't the whole truth, but he hadn't the desire or energy to explain why his body was reacting as it was. He didn't want to think about it.

She scrubbed his buttocks, then used cupfuls of warm water to rinse the – _mess mess mess –_ between them. She turned off the water and leaned over him to retrieve a towel. She dropped it onto him. He pulled it close while Kitty helped him up out of the tub, and leaned him against the bathroom wall. She pulled out another towel and rubbed his hair and gave him a quick wipe-down. She considered dressing him there, but thought better of it. His eyes were closed and he was already starting to slide down the wall. She took the clothes off the counter, tucked them under her arm, and led him from the bathroom.

"Closet?" He asked, weary and resigned.

"Bedroom," she replied, turning him right instead of left. He didn't know what to think of her answer, so he didn't try. She guided him through a doorway, and a few steps ahead before sitting him down – _a bed, a real bed! –_ Sherlock tried not to get his hopes up that he'd be allowed to stay, but failed miserably.

"Jim said these would fit you," Kitty said. She leaned toward his slumped form, taking his shoulders in her hands and sitting him up a little straighter before pulling his arms through a pyjama top and buttoning it up. She slid soft pants – _cotton, definitely, high-quality –_ up his long legs, leaning him against her shoulder and lifting him to pull them on fully, then again to put on pyjama bottoms. She laid him on his back and placed a pillow under his head.

He hissed slightly through his teeth at the stinging between his legs. "On your side is better," Kitty mumbled, pulling him over to face her. She pulled sheets and a warm blanket and duvet over him.

"Why …" He croaked, unable to finish his question, but Kitty anticipated it.

"Jim said so." She turned away from him and walked out the door, closing it behind her. Sherlock heard the 'snick' of a lock being turned.

The warmth and comfort were entirely too much for him to resist. He slept.

* * *

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_**AN: I thought I'd start putting notes at the end. I like it better this way.**_

_Thanks again, all you mighty reviewers, followers, and favorite-ers! Please send constructive criticism my way. It's all I live for. Man, I was right about these chapters getting longer. Sheesh!_

_Don't Fear The Kittylock. It's better than it sounds._

_**Notes on previous chapters**_  
_I've been meaning to mention a few things. Here they are:_

_**Fishing Cats** are real - Jim didn't imagine them. The fishing cat (Prionailurus viverrinus) is a medium-sized wild cat of South and Southeast Asia. They're adorable, and they're endangered._

_**The Dalmore** 50-Year-Old scotch costs about $12,000 a bottle, if you can find it. Mycroft has good taste._

_**Ketamine**, in high doses, causes hallucinations. In bad situations, the hallucinations are beyond nightmarish. Ketamine was an early date-rape drug in the U.S., before rohypnol. In the 1980s there was no blood test for it, it usually causes amnesia, and it used to be pretty easy to get if you knew a veterinarian. In case you were wondering, yes, it makes animals hallucinate too. Helpful Hint: Cranberry juice partly blocks its effects._

_**Drugs** are bad, mmmkay? I can neither confirm nor deny that I have tried any or all of those mentioned, just that I have an intimate knowledge of their effects._

_**Finally**, the best quote about writing I've read in a long time. I'm no novelist, but I know what he means!_

_"A novel is like an animal you have to hunt down and kill. If you let it sit for two days, it's got a two-day head start." - Daniel Alarcon_

**DFTBA**_  
_


	8. Betrayal and Breakfast

**Betrayal and Breakfast**

* * *

_Sherlock is lying on the couch at Baker Street. His eyes are closed. He's warm, but there's no fire in the fireplace, no blanket. John is lying on top of him, stretched almost as long as Sherlock. They're locked in a comfortable embrace, with just a whisper of something more. He feels John taking a deep, slow breath, smiling into his chest. John looks up into Sherlock's eyes with love and complete trust, and he returns the smile and the look. He slowly closes his eyes._

_He feels the wind whip at him, blowing his coat from side to side. The rain is starting to fall, just a sprinkle so far. Sherlock looks over the edge of the rooftop. He is shaking, but not afraid. Sherlock knows what has to be done to keep Moriarty from burning him beyond recovery. He doesn't hesitate. He looks into John's eyes, sees the love there. Sherlock kisses him then, long and deep. He pulls away and tells John quietly, "You were the only one - are the only one. I know it. **You **are my heart."_

_He pulls John close, feels the other man returning the embrace. Sherlock buries his face into John's short hair, feeling it prickling against his cheek. He takes a deep breath, taking in his scent, clean and masculine, with a hint of bergamot oil. Sherlock takes John gently by the shoulders and shoves him over the edge, off the roof._

Sherlock woke gasping, eyes wide, a desperate shout dying in his throat. He couldn't catch his breath, not after what he'd done. _- But I didn't do it. Any of it. -_ The knowledge that it had been a dream did not comfort him. He might as well have done it. He betrayed John. He didn't tell him how he felt, and he didn't tell him what he was going to do. He'd told himself it was for John's safety, and it was, but that didn't matter. It was a betrayal because he'd hurt John.

He was still breathing heavily minutes later. Realizing where he was and that he was still blind didn't help Sherlock regain his composure. He was still trying to control his breath when he heard the lock turn and the bedroom door open. The scent of bergamot was instantly stronger. He knew the Earl Grey had made its way into his dream, but it made him shudder all the same.

Kitty was saying something about Jim wanting him to eat when she noticed his distress. "Are you … alright?" She set a tray down on the nightstand to his right and pressed two fingers to his throat, checking his pulse. Then she lay the back of her hand on his forehead. "Your pulse is fast and you're a little warm, but -"

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied, his breath nearly under control. "Just after-effects of the drugs. Coming down, I suppose." He spoke quickly, his voice even, willing her to believe him. If Kitty believed him, then Jim just might.

"Ah," she replied. "Well, with how much he gave you, I wouldn't have been surprised to come in here and find you dead." She paused uncomfortably. "Anyway, you're not," she said, "so sit up. I brought breakfast."

Sherlock groaned as he sat up, as much from pain as hunger. Kitty moved several pillows to prop him up and he heard the scrape of what sounded like a tray attached to the nightstand, moving it in front of him. She put a plate and a cup of tea on it. He heard the clatter of silverware as she pressed a napkin into his hand. He smelled egg, toast, and beans, and his mouth began to water.

"You can feed yourself, yeah?" Kitty asked, sitting in a chair to his right. Sherlock nodded briskly, placing the napkin in his lap. He reached out tentatively, finding the teacup first. He sipped at it, wishing Kitty would leave so she wouldn't see him fumbling with silverware, trying to find his breakfast. _- Breakfast. So it's morning? -_

He set the cup down carefully, feeling for the fork. He found it, and sat holding it for a moment. "You don't have to stay," Sherlock said, looking in her direction. Kitty noticed, not for the first time, how truly lovely his almond eyes were and how they changed color with his mood and the light. It was hard to imagine he was blind by the way he still managed to pin her with his gaze.

"Yes, I do," Kitty told him.

"Let me guess. Jim said so," he replied.

"Seems he's concerned you'll harm yourself with the silverware. Or the plate, I suppose," She said, somewhere between resigned and bored.

"But not concerned that I'll harm you?" Sherlock said, brows furrowed. He poked at the plate with his fork, hoping to come across something solid he could eat without looking too ridiculous. Naturally, he managed to spear the toast. He pulled it from the fork and promptly shoved a corner of it into his mouth. He ignored the butter dripping from his bottom lip down to his chin.

"Here, let me help you. You've got it … " Kitty took the toast from him, turned it over, and handed it back. "You had it upside down. And no, Jim's not concerned about me. Just so you know. I'm replaceable. _You_ are not." She wiped at his chin with the napkin.

"And this arrangement - it's acceptable to you?" Sherlock said, setting the toast down and trying to jab his fork into the egg he knew was on the plate, somewhere.

"Ugh! You are useless at this, Sherlock! Here, try the spoon. It'll work better on poached egg and beans." She replaced the fork with a spoon and guided his hand back to the plate.

"I've never been blind before," he sniffed. "And anyway, you didn't answer my question. You don't mind that I could harm you and Jim wouldn't care?"

Kitty chuckled. "It's the job I took. Anyway, I doubt you could harm me. You can't even harm a defenceless egg."

Sherlock set the spoon on the plate, tilted his head back, and sighed.

Kitty felt a pang of guilt as she took a good look at him. She noticed he was slim when they first met – she couldn't have missed it, the way he got in her face – but now he looked sickly more than fashionable. His skin was beyond pale. Kitty could make out the veins under his skin more clearly than was natural. She'd watched how weak Sherlock had become during his confinement, seen his bruises – even given him a few herself. And now she was making fun of him for not being able to eat properly because Jim had blinded him.

"Sorry," she said. "I, um – will you let me help, a bit? I know you're hungry," she finished lamely.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip, looking toward her again. He shrugged slightly, not wanting to admit how bloody starving he really was.

"Right," Kitty said, taking the spoon from his hand and trying not to stare into his eyes, now the lightest jade green. She couldn't shake the feeling that he could see her. Kitty handed him the half-eaten piece of toast, which he finished promptly. "Here," she said, pressing the cup into his hands, "tea."

He took two sips. "How long did I sleep?" He asked. Sherlock didn't really want to broach the subject. It reminded him of the nightmare, but he needed data. He finished the tea and set the cup down on the tray.

"A long time," Kitty told him. "Not allowed to say how long." He nodded his understanding.

Kitty helped him finish breakfast, scooping up the egg and beans and handing the spoon to him. It was all the help he could tolerate. She moved the dishes back to the nightstand and handed Sherlock a fresh half-litre bottle of water. He rested it on the tray and paused.

"Cigarette?" Sherlock asked hopefully.

"Oh. Sure. I'll join you," she said, opening a drawer in the stand to his right. He heard her pull out the pack and a lighter, then placed the saucer back on his tray. The cellophane on the pack crinkled as she fished two cigarettes out.

He quirked an eyebrow momentarily when she placed one in his right hand. Kitty waited for him to move the cigarette to his lips, and lit it for him. He heard the lighter flick again as he exhaled his first drag. – _Shared experience and sympathy. Determine how to use this as soon as possible. – _"Thank you," he said softly, looking toward her with his most vulnerable expression, smiling shyly.

_God damn,_ Kitty thought, _I could fall for a man with __**those**__ eyes ..._

* * *

For all Sherlock's mockery, Lestrade was not a stupid man by any measure - other than Sherlock's. He'd made Detective Inspector through hard work, and sometimes, by trusting his instincts. Right now, his instincts were telling him that Mycroft knew more than he'd said two days ago. Maybe a lot more.

And John wasn't answering his phone. Lestrade shook his head angrily and typed out a text.

_Is everything okay? _

_Mycroft was acting strange the other day. _

_I'm taking a drive to the cemetery. _

_Care to go with?_

He pressed send, and waited for John's answer. In truth, he was already in his car in front of the cemetery gates. He knew full well that Sherlock wasn't buried in any "quiet corner," as Mycroft had asserted. Hell, he'd been at the funeral, and wasn't likely to forget his friend's (possible?) final resting place. His phone pinged – it was John's reply, only minutes later.

_I'm fine. Sorry to cause so much trouble. _

_Thank you for taking me to see Mycroft. _

_I feel better about it now. About Sherlock. _

_I'm staying in tonight. Go for a pint another time?_

"You lying sack of … " Lestrade yanked the key from the ignition and stepped out of his car into the afternoon sun. He didn't know why Mycroft and John would shut him out, but now he knew damned well they were. He stared over the headstones in the cemetery towards the Holmes' family plot, slammed his door, and strode through the front gate.

A minute later, a squad car drove along the road in front of the cemetery, slowed briefly as it passed Lestrade's car, then moved on.

* * *

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_AN: Told you Kittylock wouldn't be so bad! (Was it?) Yes, there are still lots more naughty, lovely, slashy bits to come. Soon._

_Many, many thanks to the reviewers, followers, and favorite-ers! I'm flattered to know that out of all the (tens of) thousands of Sherlock fics out there, you took the time to read mine._

**DFTBA**_  
_


	9. A Fleeting Impression

**A Fleeting Impression**

_In which something Sherlock deleted comes back to haunt him._

* * *

Moriarty looked up from the lazy figure eight he was drawing around his lover's nipples with a biro. "Did you have a nice time?" he asked, looking into Moran's eyes. They were sprawled over Jim's massive bed, dark wood headboard and furniture in the bedroom matching the colors of his library. Late afternoon sun streamed through the second-floor window, closed against the chill of Autumn descending on London. The duvet that lay rumpled, half over the men, was a dark green that perfectly complimented the room.

"You know I did," Moran replied, pausing long enough to relieve Jim of the pen before rolling over onto him and biting teasingly at Moriarty's jaw. Jim tilted his head back and grinned.

"So shall we have another go at Sherlock, then?" He said, looking up at Sebastian, brown eyes wide and innocent.

"Christ, James," Moran replied, rolling off Moriarty, coming to rest with both arms over his eyes. "You are an absolute master at saying what you _don't_ mean. Do you ever tire of giving the wrong impression?"

"Oh, now, Sebs. Don't be mad. I was only teasing."

"Of course you were. Because you're a tease. A sexy, sexy, tease." Moran rolled over quickly and bit Moriarty's left nipple.

"Eeep!" Jim squeaked, laughing. He sighed. "Maybe I should stay in bed all day."

"As you like, James. I'm going to have a wash," Moran said, pointing to his chest, sporting various designs in ink. "Care to join me – if you've the strength to get out of bed?"

"Do you even have to ask, Sebs?" Moriarty said.

"Seemed the polite thing to do," Sebastian replied with a wink.

"Uuugh," Moriarty groaned, stretching as he slowly moved to the edge of the bed and stood up. "Time to get to it, I suppose. Sherlock's will isn't going to break itself."

* * *

Sherlock stubbed out his cigarette in the saucer as he exhaled the last of the smoke through his nostrils.

"Will I … will I ever see again?" He asked quietly.

"I really don't know, and you know I couldn't tell you if I did," Kitty replied, extinguishing her cigarette as well. Her voice hinted at regret. – _Kitty didn't say she 'wouldn't' tell me, she said she 'couldn't' which says she would if she knew. Voice says she's telling the truth as well. – _

"You can ask Jim yourself in a little while," she said. "Do you want to get cleaned up first?"

Sherlock was surprised by the sudden turn the conversation had taken, but soon recovered. "Yes, thanks."

Kitty walked him back to the bathroom, and Sherlock noticed how much stronger he felt after a rest and a meal.

"Your clothes are on the counter again. You can … ahh … take care of it this time?"

He nodded. "May I have a toothbrush? My teeth feel a bit furry." He smiled ruefully, hoping he was looking directly into her eyes to manipulate her sympathies further.

She pulled open a drawer and placed a toothbrush in his hand. "I'll be outside."

Sherlock pulled off the pyjamas and showered quickly, not wanting to wait to speak to Moriarty. He wished he'd asked for a razor as he scrubbed his face, feeling the makings of a true beard. He washed his hair, feeling with satisfaction that the injury on his head was nearly healed. For the first time since he – _left John _– disappeared, Sherlock noticed how much longer his hair had gotten in just a few months. It was just touching his shoulders now that the water and shampoo had straightened his curls.

Once finished, he got out carefully, feeling for the towel he'd heard Kitty pull down for him last time. – _yesterday?_ – He found it and dried himself, then put it back and felt about the counter for his clothes. As soon as his hands found them, he knew they weren't his clothes, but was quite sure they'd fit him. He'd been given pants, tracksuit trousers, and a tshirt – _thick cotton again, casual but expensive –_ and of course they fit perfectly. No socks, shoes, or belt, naturally.

He opened the door, and Kitty arrived to direct him to another room. – _Fifteen feet down a hall to the left of the bathroom, past the closet. Kitchen. Kitty seems nervous. –_ He frowned slightly at that realization as she placed his hand on the back of a chair. He sat, and Kitty put what sounded like a laptop on the – _heavy, wooden _– table, and opened the lid of the computer.

He heard Jim's voice come from the small speakers. "Thank you Kitty. Why don't you take a break."

Sherlock heard her sigh quietly and head off to his left. – _Sitting room, probably - _

Moriarty addressed him then. "I suppose you're wondering … well, about quite a few things. And to be honest, I don't care. Here's the thing: there's been a change of plans."

Sherlock stiffened. "We have a deal."

"Yes, yes, don't worry about little Johnny. It's nothing to do with him." Moriarty chuckled.

"What, then?" Sherlock asked warily.

"Well, I planned all this so that you'd be my little genius-machine, solving puzzles and ciphers and whatnots for me – things I was too busy to bother with, you understand. But I find that's just not going to be enough."

"Enough for what?"

"To keep me entertained, you bozo," Jim replied playfully.

"I won't kill anyone for you." Sherlock said.

"Wrong again, Sherlock. Come on, you came up with the idea yourself."

"_**I did!?**_" Sherlock said, his anger getting the better of him again.

"Mmm. _'That's what this is about, isn't it? Drive Sherlock mad?_'" Moriarty's voice had changed, imitating Sherlock's.

Sherlock's eyebrows scrunched together. "So you're going to keep me here for a year, to – to what?"

Jim continued his musing, ignoring Sherlock. "I mean, how dull is it to just make you my little data processor, Sherlock, when I could 'drive reason out of you?' Now _that's_ a challenge."

"It won't work," He said immediately, with more confidence than he felt.

"Maybe so, maybe not. That's what makes it such an exciting challenge, though, isn't it?"

"No. You've made up the rules. It's not a fair game." Sherlock said flatly, working to keep the anxiety out of his voice.

"Didn't say it was fair. But won't it be nice to have all those feelings smashing about in your head, like when you were young? I find it very liberating, myself," Moriarty said, clearly delighted.

"What do you know about 'when I was young?' I read Kitty's so-called expose. There was nothing … I mean, Mycroft wouldn't have told you, no matter what." _- Shit. I just tipped my hand. What little I had - _

"Told me about the 'special' boarding school, you mean? Of course that's what you meant. I thought you might have remembered, when you called me Jimmy. I suppose I made a fleeting impression on you then, as well. Hmm. Should I be hurt? But no, I'm sure it was the drugs."

Sherlock took in a sharp, involuntary breath. Memories flooded him too quickly to be analyzed, even for him. _- Clinging to Mummy's hand. Crying. Mycroft, his eyes sad. A white room. Rage. A teacher with cold eyes. Rage. Someone holding his arms down. Pain. Fear. –_ His hands shook as he stood up, shoving the chair backwards. He slammed the laptop closed and stood stock still, fists balled at his sides.

"Sherrr-lock," Moriarty called from a speaker set above him in the kitchen. "That was very rude. Pointless, too, since all you're doing is standing there staring into space, knowing you can't leave. So what did it get you?"

Sherlock remained silent and still.

"I'm waiting," Moriarty said, back to sing-songing his words. "Say it. Say it. Say it."

"Demerit." Sherlock finally answered, his voice emotionless, remembering now where he'd been taught that word.

"Kit-ty Kit-ty Kit-ty!" Jim called. She entered the kitchen and stood a few feet from Sherlock. "Kitty, Sherlock has been naughty. He needs to take his medicine and go to his room without supper. Make sure he does. Use numbers three and ten."

"By the way, Sherlock, kudos on the beard. I didn't know you were able to grow facial hair. You're beginning to look like The Bard."

Sherlock didn't reply. He was concentrating too hard on the room that had begun spinning almost as violently as his thoughts.

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**AN:** _Thanks to all for the favorites, reviews, and follows. And for reading. It makes my day!_

**DFTBA**


	10. Seven Days Earlier

**Seven Days Earlier**

* * *

**_ John_**

3:45AM

John Watson had never been much of a deep sleeper, even before Afghanistan. After Sherlock was gone, it seemed he'd never sleep through a night again. He was in the sitting room at 221B, wearing pyjama bottoms and a tshirt, Sherlock's burgundy dressing gown wrapped tightly around him. Some nights it helped. Tonight wasn't one of those nights.

As he watched Shawn of The Dead for at least the 20th time on the sofa, he thought he heard the wonky stair step creak. He chalked it up to the movie and his persistent exhaustion. Their door was closed and locked, anyway. John noted wearily that he still thought of it as "their" door. If his friend was still living there, it would probably be open. John had always preferred the door closed, but didn't tell Sherlock – after all, when he was experimenting at the kitchen table, it was wiser to maintain maximum airflow in the flat.

So John was caught off-guard when the door was unlocked and opened in one swift motion. He had just enough time to wonder where someone would get a key before a balaclava-wearing brute of a man pointed a gun in his face.

"Quietly now," the man warned. "Wouldn't want to wake Mrs. Hudson, would we?"

John shook his head emphatically and raised his hands. A second thug entered, gun drawn, his face also masked. He motioned with the gun for John to stand up. The first man spun John around roughly and cuffed his hands behind him. A canvas sack was pulled over his head. One of them gathered the fabric tightly around his neck, and he felt it being secured with a zip tie before he was pushed toward the door. It wasn't enough to choke him, but the threat was clear. He was hustled down the stairs, then stopped at the front door. He heard it open, then after a moment, the first man said "Let's go." John was rushed out the door and shoved into the back of a van.

He tried to struggle into a sitting position, but was flipped roughly on his stomach for his troubles. With Mrs. Hudson presumably safe, John shouted, "What the bloody hell is going on? Where are you taking me?" There was no answer.

He felt the van make its way through London's streets for several minutes before getting on the motorway. John guessed they'd driven on it for about 20 minutes before turning off. The van made several more turns, and after a few minutes he felt the paved road change to gravel and the van soon stopped. The engine was turned off and the back door opened.

John was pulled out and his bare feet crunched on the gravel as he was led forward. He heard a key turning in a heavy lock, and a metal door slid open. His feet grew colder as he was marched forward again on a concrete floor. He couldn't hear well with the bag over his head, but he sensed it was a warehouse or a factory. After walking about fifty feet or so, he heard another door being unlocked and opened.

He was led into the room and his wrists were uncuffed briefly. His back was pushed against a metal pole, and the handcuffs were re-fastened behind him with his arms around the pole. "Is anyone going to tell me what's going on?"

He heard several individuals moving about the room, but no one answered him. "Right then. Cheers," he said, sliding down the pole and crossing his legs. Taunting his captors wasn't the wisest move, but he didn't have a clue what they wanted from him and it was making him even more tired and grumpy than he'd already been. The fact that the bag was stifling and his face was sweating profusely didn't help. Luckily for him, they continued to ignore his comments.

The men seemed to be settling in. He heard one of them sit, and then smelled the faint scent of cigarette smoke. John thought of Sherlock – these days, that aroma always brought him to mind. As clever as he was, John could tell when he'd slipped and smoked one. John would call Sherlock on it, and before long Sherlock's arm would be decorated with one (or three) nicotine patches. He'd quit for good before they went to Baskerville. At least, John thought he had, but he was fooled into thinking that more than once, until Sherlock came home, his coat reeking of smoke. He knew Sherlock could have hidden it, but either he didn't care enough to bother, or he secretly enjoyed John telling him off and generally acting like a mother hen.

It suddenly occurred to John that these men might have abducted him to get to Sherlock. They were going to be sorely disappointed if that were the case, he thought wistfully. The thought was immediately followed by a twinge of fear – what would they do with him when they figured it out?

He heard a mobile phone ring, but couldn't make out the conversation that followed. Soon, he heard footsteps heading towards the door, and the click of a light switch. "Hey!" He called out. "Could you at least take this bag off my head? I can't breathe properly like this."

The footsteps paused. "Please?" He asked.

He heard one of them approach him and cut the plastic tie from his neck. The canvas bag was removed, but before John could look up, a powerful torch was shined directly into his eyes. He squinted and turned away, temporarily blinded. John heard the footsteps quickly retreating before the door was closed and locked.

John noted the room smelled of dust and damp, now that his head was uncovered. There were either no windows in the room, or all the lights were out in the building, because he couldn't see a thing once his vision cleared of the white spots caused by the torch. There were no sounds to speak of, either.

He pulled experimentally at the cuffs, knowing it was no use. They were already tight enough to chafe his skin. He was going nowhere until someone came and released him. He sighed, leaning back against the cold metal, and stretched his legs in front of him.

...

John awoke with a start, sore and confused. How had he managed such an awkward position on the sofa? Then the events of the night returned. He pushed himself back against the pole and stretched his neck and back the best he could. He didn't know how long he'd slept, only that he was thirsty and needed to pee.

After what seemed like an eternity, the men returned. One of them shined a torch into his eyes again as another flicked on the light and closed the door. John's head was quickly covered.

Moments later, the door opened again. No one said a word.

"Now what?!" John cried out angrily.

One of the men walked out the door, and closed it behind him.

"Can you please tell me what the fuck is going on?!" John pulled at the handcuffs, only succeeding in making his swollen wrists more sore. One of the men chuckled under his breath, but said nothing.

John sighed and leaned back against the pole. Another eternity went by before he heard the door open again. Someone walked in and said "Moving." John was roughly pulled to his feet and was freed briefly from the handcuffs as two of the men pushed him away from the pole, then reattached them firmly to his wrists. They seemed to be waiting for a signal. He thought he heard footsteps outside the room, then a tap at the door. The door opened, and he was led out by the two men.

John sensed others waiting outside, but again no one spoke as he was walked by them. He jerked slightly, registering confusion at the sudden sensation that he knew one of them. He only had time enough to think _Sherlock?_ as he was pulled forward across the warehouse.

* * *

**_Sherlock_**

6:30AM

Sherlock sat in a corner of the makeshift skate park, his red hooded sweatshirt zipped up, the hood drawn over his head. He wore dingy jeans and well-used black trainers. He'd traded his watch for the clothes he now wore, then left his coat, shoes and wallet in the darkest recess of the family crypt, safely behind great-great grandad Holmes' final resting place. Next to him sat a much older man smoking a joint.

"Ya, this'll do," the man said.

"So?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"So. I seen this bloke bugger off into a car with two others and take off after the deal got fucked-"

Sherlock interrupted him. "It wasn't a drug deal gone bad. It was an assassination meant to look like one. What did the man who shot Des look like?"

"Ahh, average I guess."

Sherlock pressed his palms against his eyelids. "Did you even _see_ him, Marty?" He asked accusingly.

"Yeah, I seen 'im. He was just … I dunno …" the man said, waving the joint around in front of him.

Sherlock snatched it away. "Do you want the rest or don't you?" The man nodded. "Then think. Was he white? Black? Asian? What was he wearing? What color was his hair?"

"Jeez, alright. He ahhh … He's white. Wearin' … wearin' black trousers. Nice ones, like. White shirt. Long coat. It were gray, I think. His hair … well, it was brown. Brownish. Yeah. And he had a beard. No. No. He had a goatee. I think."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked pointedly. "Are you sure it was a goatee?"

"I told you I weren't sure. It was a beard or a goatee. Brownish … maybe ginger. Not too long. I'll tell you this – he was too posh to be here." The man reached for his joint, and Sherlock handed it back to him, then tossed a small paper bag in his lap.

He stood, and looked back at the man trying to relight the joint. "Thank you," Sherlock said. "You've been … marginally helpful." The man waved the joint in salute, and Sherlock stalked away from him, brow creased in concentration. He didn't hear the girl on a BMX bike behind him until she was next to him. She rolled up to his left side, pushed him and quickly rode off.

Sherlock stumbled slightly but regained his balance. He'd felt her put a hand in the pocket of his hoodie. – _Pickpocket? No. Anyone who doesn't know me would guess I haven't got any money. –_ Walking quickly to a secluded spot, he reached into his pocket and felt a slip of paper that hadn't been there before. He checked to be sure no one was looking before he pulled out the paper. _- Bohemian. Of course. -_

_..._

_Meet me at the witch's house. You have 4 hours until I take your pet to the vet to be put to sleep. Miss me? - JM_

_..._

"Damn," Sherlock muttered under his breath. He suspected Moriarty was alive, but still hadn't worked out how he could've survived. – _Probably not him. One of his itsy bitsy spiders. –_ Sherlock couldn't pay the cab fare to Addlestone, so public transit it would have to be. _- It'll take me nearly that long to get there, but I'm sure whoever sent this message knows that. - _He shoved his hands into his pockets, and with long strides he made his way towards the main road.

Just over three hours later, Sherlock was crunching along the gravel drive leading to the factory. He reached the main door and found it open. He stepped inside cautiously, clicking on his small torch as he did.

"Turn that off." - _Definitely Moriarty. How the hell did he … _- Sherlock did as he was told.

"Where's John?" He called into the darkness.

"All in good time," came the smug reply.

"_**Now**_ is a good time."

"First we negotiate. Then you see him." Moriarty said.

"No." Sherlock said flatly.

There was a pause, then a sigh. "Fine," he said huffily. "Well ... follow me!"

Sherlock followed the sound of footsteps across the darkened warehouse. His eyes were beginning to adjust, and he could just make out a figure stopping in front of an office door.

"Not a sound," Moriarty whispered conspiratorially, "or his life is forfeit." He opened the door and flicked on the light.

Sherlock's mouth went dry. He hadn't seen John in so long. And he certainly didn't want to see him like this. There was a bag over John's head, but Sherlock knew instantly it was him. He was sitting bound to a metal pole, ancient paint flaking off it. John was in his nightclothes, shoeless, wearing Sherlock's dressing gown. Sherlock's guts twisted and his mouth opened, but no sound came out. He knew better than to disobey Moriarty. He wouldn't have come if he wasn't already willing to sacrifice everything for John, and he wasn't going to ruin his chances of getting him away from Moriarty now.

"Now what?!" John shouted. Moriarty motioned for one of the men to follow him, then casually turned and walked away, knowing Sherlock wouldn't be far behind.

He walked across the warehouse to an office in the opposite corner, turned on the light and entered. Sherlock soon came in behind him. There were already two chairs placed at the sides of a small table, a thin folder on the tabletop. Moriarty sat, and Sherlock warily did the same as Moriarty's man walked in and leaned against the wall nearest the door.

"I thought you didn't get your hands dirty," Sherlock began casually.

"This is a special occasion. By the way, you're looking well, for a dead man."

"I could say the same of you." Sherlock responded.

"Mmm." Moriarty nodded slightly in agreement. "Some day we'll have to share our little tales of daring-do."

Sherlock and Moriarty stared at one another across the table.

"What do you want in exchange for John's safety?" Sherlock said, abruptly breaking the silence.

"Testy!" Moriarty chided. "I hear frustration in your voice. You don't like giving up control, do you? And you're afraid for little Johnny."

"Yes, brilliant observations, all. What. Do. You. Want."

Moriarty grinned, a predatory gleam in his eye. "In a word: you. In many words, this," he said, moving the folder across the table to Sherlock.

Sherlock opened the folder and scanned the single sheet of paper inside. "No," he said.

"No? You came all this way, came out of hiding, just to tell me … No?"

"You knew I wouldn't go along with this. It's your opening offer. So here's my counteroffer. I'll agree to most of your demands-"

"Arrangements," Moriarty corrected.

Sherlock ignored him. "But I will not, under any circumstances, kill for you. I won't help you kill or injure anyone, either. And you must release John at once, and guarantee his safety for the duration of our agreement."

"Ooooh, look at the morals on this one!" Moriarty said to no one in particular. "And you're willing to let John die for them?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty, but said nothing.

Moriarty finally broke the silence. "Final offer. Decision time." He smiled crookedly and reached for the paper, pulling a pen from his suit coat. He wrote a few lines on the paper and passed it back.

"Fine. Yes." Sherlock kept the tremor out of his voice, just barely. Rage and fear and relief were fighting for dominance, and the emotions were nearly overwhelming.

"Well, sign it! It's not _legal_ if you don't." Moriarty could barely control his glee.

"It's not legal in any case," Sherlock growled, but signed at the bottom of the page.

"And I'll sign here," Jim said, taking the paper back. "Well, now that's settled, I think this calls for a celebration." He clicked his fingers at the man leaning back against the wall. He ambled to the corner of the room, returning with a bottle of Chateauneuf de Pape and two champagne flutes. Moriarty waved at him, and he turned back to the corner to open the bottle and pour two glasses. He returned and handed them both to Moriarty, then left the room. Moriarty passed a glass to Sherlock.

"I'd prefer that one, please," Sherlock said, gesturing to the one in Moriarty's hand.

"Of course," Moriarty replied easily, trading with Sherlock. "Since you asked so nicely."

"Both drugged, then?" Sherlock asked casually, taking a sip.

"Naturally. Don't worry, I won't be driving." Moriarty drained his glass. "Bottoms up, dearie. Places to go, things to do and all that."

Sherlock took a breath and downed his champagne. "Very nice," he commented drily. "You can barely taste the rohypnol."

"Too true. Well, now that's settled, I find myself in a rather generous mood. What do you say we go see your little friend one more time before we go." Moriarty gestured for Sherlock to precede him out the door, back to the office at the opposite side of the warehouse. "Remember," Moriarty cautioned as they approached, "Not a sound."

Jim rapped lightly at the door, and momentarily it opened. John was led out between two of Moriarty's men as they walked him towards the other office. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. Moriarty shrugged noncommittally. He crooked his finger at Sherlock, gesturing for him to follow to the warehouse door. Sherlock was already feeling a bit warm and woozy by the time he got into the back seat of Jim's town car. He heard the car make its way back onto the paved roadway, and faded into unconsciousness.

* * *

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_AN: Sorry for the backtracking, but it had to be done. More slashy goodness (and badness) to come this weekend. Thanks again to all who've taken the time to stay with the story. I love you, kind reviewers, followers, favorite-ers, and all the Sherlock fanfic fiends out there! It's good to know I'm not alone in my obsession._

**DFTBA**_  
_


	11. One, Two, Three, Four

**One, Two, Three, Four**

_Be a good boy._

* * *

Sherlock turned mechanically and walked without assistance, stopping five feet from the closet door. Kitty unlocked the door and opened it. He walked in without saying a word. He was overwhelmed, he was numb, and he didn't care what she did to him now. _- Not a good place for my mind to be. But the alternative … No. Stay here. - _

Moriarty's voice was back. "Sit on the floor, there's a good lad. Kitty, three and ten."

"I remember," Kitty said, a hint of annoyance in her voice. She pulled open a drawer in the table by the door. Sherlock heard the plastic syringes clicking together as she grasped them both in one hand. He sat down in the middle of the room and crossed his legs.

Kitty seemed reluctant, but after a short pause she pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock's t-shirt. He heard something tearing, then smelled rubbing alcohol and felt her wipe at a spot on his arm.

She squeezed his upper arm and quickly pressed the needle in. She took a full four seconds to depress the plunger, slowly injecting the contents into his arm.

"Why didn't you finish nursing school?" Sherlock asked.

"How did you … ? Never mind." She retracted the needle and covered the site with a small plaster.

He heard her tear another packet open, smelled, then felt her rub another spot on his upper arm with an alcohol wipe. Sherlock sighed, lowering his chin to his chest in resignation.

She performed the second injection as quickly and professionally as the first. "I had to leave. Couldn't afford the classes any more, so I got another job."

"Journalist?"

"That too," she said simply. She stepped out of the room and returned with the chamberpot – _revolting_ – and another plastic bottle, likely water.

"You know," Moriarty mused, "in this case, I think it would be safer to have you restrained. Can't have you hurting yourself – I want full return on my investment. Hands behind your back, darling, you know the drill." Moriarty continued, "Kitty, use the ones from the second drawer. Those. And the little padlock on the – that one, yes."

Sherlock sat still, hands behind his back, waiting. He felt Kitty slip a wide cuff around his left wrist and fasten it tightly. _- Leather, sheepskin lining? -_ She moved quickly to do the same with the right, then pulled them together with the padlock, which snapped shut with finality.

Sherlock found the sensation of the leather around his wrists inexplicably terrifying.

"Why would you leave me water and a goddamned chamber pot, then?" He shouted, hating the shrill edge of his voice.

_Why am I swearing? Language is created in the left hemisphere. Evolved. Intellectual. Curse words come from the limbic system. Primitive units of emotional expression._

"I'm sure when you're desperate enough, you can figure out how to deal with your … needs. It should be fun to watch. If you can't figure it out, it'll be even more fun to watch."

Sherlock wanted to scream at Jim but he held himself back – barely.

"Off you go now. The drugs should help you trip down memory lane. Any. Moment. Now."

Another memory fragment bubbled up before Sherlock could contain it. _Old-style leather hospital restraints. Strapped to a bed, small and frightened. He squirmed on the bed, feeling his limbs grow heavy. He heard a female voice. "We do not strike other students, Sherlock. You __**must**_ _learn." The figure in white exited the small room, a white blur against white walls. "Wait!" He cried out before the door closed. "I'll be good. I promise!" "Yes, Sherlock, I expect you will."_

"Trip." Sherlock repeated the word, feeling a bit manic and not a little confused. Sherlock swore now that he could see the faint outlines of the corners, the doorframe. - _Was the blindness reversible after all?_ - But then the outlines of the corners went squiggly and started crawling up towards the ceiling, meeting at the center to form a cross. The cross turned, gaining more lines as it did, morphing into star, a snowflake.

_A starflake. The one he'd always seen when he'd used … LSD. Fuck. _

He whipped his head around toward the door. "You. Little. **BITCH!**" _- And there goes the rapport I built with Kitty. __**Shut. Up.**_ _Nobody wants to hear from you. - _

Truthfully, he didn't know if he was talking to Kitty or the woman in white. He felt, smelled, tasted the acid on the roof of his mouth, and ran his tongue over and over against it. The sense, the texture of it, the mouth-ness of it, told him the effects of the acid were just coming on. He heard the door close and the bolt shoved home. It echoed, the bolt sliding back and forth in the door. He couldn't tell if it was really moving, but suspected it was an auditory hallucination.

_Mummy raised her voice, maybe for the first time in his life. Father tells her that arrangements have already been made for after the new year when the next session starts. Quiet footsteps on the floor in front of his room tell him Mycroft has been eavesdropping too. Maybe he knows what it means … _

Sherlock was twitchy, tired and agitated at the same time. He rose to his knees and made his way forward. He pressed his forehead against the wall, rolling his head back and forth. It didn't help. He tried it at the middle of each wall in turn. They felt softer, giving slightly as he pressed his forehead against them, rolling back and forth, back and forth. The door felt crinkly and different, but it was in the center of the wall so he tried it anyway.

_What the hell else did he give me? This isn't cocaine. No rush, no elation. Agitation. Obsession. Anxiety. I have to get out of here. Will the walls let me out if I press against them in the right spot? Maybe. Maybe is sometimes and probably and infinite. Both yes and no and neither. A roulette ball bounces, the wheel spins. The ball is maybe. Maybe can land anywhere, stay as long as it likes, then move again as long as the wheel is spinning. The wheel stops and maybe ends. Possibly, maybe, sometimes. All ways of trying to label, to make concrete that which is not. _

He realized he was still pressing his forehead to the walls, starting from one edge and working his way across to the next.

_Four walls. One, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three, four, three, two, one. _

He gasped in a breath. "Mustn't stop counting," he mumbled. His existence depended on it.

_One, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three, four, three, two, one, two, three, four, three, two, one. _

It wasn't right. He was doing something wrong, he knew it. He shuffled to the center of the room and lay on his stomach. The movement tugged at the restraints around his wrists. Terror grasped at him, his throat, his gut. It was a living force, he could see it. He could **see** it.

_Too much. Too much. Too much. Too much. Should I count the ones and fours twice? Will that fix … it? One two three four four three two one one two three four four. Is that right? Can't stop too important now. Have to fix it. Be a good boy. Fuck fuck fuck fuck. One two three four. I don't give a fuck. I give four fucks. One two three four._

He was up again, on his feet this time, panting, nodding his head over and over precisely in acute angles in relation to his spine. 30 degrees to 60 degrees, counting every one in between. He couldn't stop moving, stop gasping. Sherlock tried to concentrate on his breathing, but the starflakes overtook his vision again. They sounded like wing feathers rustling as they created and recreated themselves in green and purple. Electricity zapped from the edges, pinging and hissing over the rustling sound.

"No," he said aloud. It was all wrong, the sound, the feel of it. Talking was bad. Making noise was wrong. Sherlock walked forward until he was pressing into a wall, and kept trying to walk, willing it to move. It did. He felt it move, and continue to move. He looked behind him, unseeing, knowing the room was the same size no matter how far he moved the wall.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against it, and felt his head moving into the wall. Inside he found a projected image of protozoa, swirling and dancing until they morphed into sea anemones, brightly colored, thousands of tentacles waving lazily in the water.

_Water-dwelling, predatory animals of the order Actiniaria. Named after the anemone, a terrestrial flower. Phylum Cnidaria, class Anthozoa, subclass Zoantharia. Useless information. Have to keep moving._

Clownfish moved in and out of the anemones with impunity, but he could not. This wasn't the way out. He stepped back. The wall returned to its original shape.

_A wall is not an exit. A wall is never an exit. Was it? Maybe. Possibly. Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. _

"Puh," Sherlock pushed out the sound, his lips moving to make a 'pop' as he did so. "Pap. Pep. Pip. Pop. Pup. Sometimes Y. Not this time. Puh. Palindrome. A man. A plan. A canal. Panama."

* * *

"Oh my stars and garters!" Moriarty yelled giddily. "Sebs, get in here, this is fantastic! Sherlock is – oh, you have to see it for yourself. Hurry!" He stared at the screen, mere inches from it, greedy to take in every pixel. Moriarty turned up the volume on the computer. "What a lovely gift. But it's not my birthday … "

He turned briefly to look toward the door of his study. "Sebs, get that tasty arse in here right now!" Jim could barely speak through his giggles. "And bring popcorn!"

Moran poked his head into the room. "James, do you want me to bring my tasty arse in, or make popcorn?"

Moriarty was transfixed by the screen, sparing Sebastian the barest glance before turning back. "Popcorn. Then arse. Quickly."

* * *

_**AN: **Well, that was a dizzying experience for Sherlock and me both. I took a risk with this chapter. I hope it worked. At least I can take a breather; not so for our beloved consulting detective._

_**Thank you** again for reading. I really appreciate all the reviews, follows, and favorites. I also appreciate anyone out there just lurking and reading._

_**Next chapter **should be posted by Tuesday night, RL permitting._

_**About swearing:** I borrowed heavily from information in a video by the ever-awesome Hank Green of the Vlogbrothers. You can find it by searching YouTube for the phrase:_

_"F#*%? An Explanation of Curse Words."_

_**Also: drugs are bad for you. No joke.**_

_DFTBA_

_**Nerdfighters Forever!**_


	12. Compazine and Crockery

**Compazine and Crockery**

_Mycroft and Moriarty are displeased when plans go awry._

* * *

…

_JM's men aren't cooperating. I'm paying them a visit._

...

John read Mycroft's text, wondering if he was at the dentist again. More likely he knows better than to call me without anything useful about Sherlock, John thought. Those bastards better start talking soon, or he was going to "pay them a visit" himself. With some satisfaction, John imagined it wouldn't be necessary. Mycroft had a way of getting to people. Except Moriarty, of course.

He wagered Moriarty's hired help would be another story. John's first encounter with Mycroft had left him shaking in his boots, and he later learned that his exchange with the man had actually been one Mycroft considered cordial. He could only imagine the terror one would feel if Mycroft were to direct the full force of his anger at them.

* * *

Tyson sat on the metal stool in his solitary confinement cell, looking towards the door. He knew it was only a matter of time before someone else came to try to knock the information out of him about his work for Moriarty. He wouldn't say anything, though, no matter what. Everyone who was in Moriarty's employ knew better than to cross him.

Finally, one of the prison officers opened the door. No suit with him this time, Tyson thought. "On your feet," the man ordered. He hadn't seen this one before, but stood anyway, remaining where he was.

The officer motioned for him to turn around and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. Tyson didn't like the look in his eye one bit. "What now?" He asked angrily as he turned away from the officer.

He felt the garotte around his neck, pulled tight before he could react. The last thing Tyson heard was "Jim says 'Hi'."

* * *

Anthea looked up from her phone at Mycroft, seated next to her in the town car. "Sir, I've just had a text," she began. Mycroft turned to her and nodded for her to continue. She looked back at her phone. "It looks like Moriarty got to one of his men before we could."

Mycroft's face turned sour. "And how did that happen? I was assured they would be monitored at all times, and I took the precaution of stationing my people at the doors."

"The Prison Governor says that CCTV footage shows your man at the door having a coffee. Soon after, it appears a drug had been added to it that rendered him unconscious. Another man entered in prison officer gear, but the Governor swears he's not one of theirs." She grinned, just slightly. "It's odd. I can sense the Governor's nervousness, even in a text message from his assistant."

"Yes. Well. Perhaps he understands the gravity of the situation. And my intense displeasure," Mycroft commented darkly. He thought for a moment, then said to Anthea, "All might not be lost. I may be able to use this to my advantage. Have the video footage sent to my phone at once."

Anthea dutifully typed the reply, her fingers moving so smoothly over the keys it was doubtful anyone could communicate the information any faster with a phone call.

Mycroft sat back a bit in his seat, his palms pressed together under his chin, deep in thought.

Ten minutes later they drove through the gates of the secret High Value Prisoner Compound. The Prison Governor was outside to meet them as the car stopped in front of the imposing building, built to contain enemies of the State. The man's hair and suit were in disarray, and he was clearly sweating despite the chill in the air.

Mycroft stepped out of the car and began speaking before the Governor had a chance to make excuses or offer his apologies. "I see you realize the gravity of the situation. I expect your resignation immediately. If I am feeling **very** kind, I will not have charges brought against you for your blunder."

The man shrank in on himself, nodding quickly, opening his mouth to speak.

"Your input is neither necessary nor desired," Mycroft spat. "My kindness – or lack thereof – will be entirely dependent upon the outcome of my interview with the remaining prisoner." He swept past the Governor towards the main entrance. "And contain your copious sweating, man. It's exceedingly unprofessional."

The man hurried behind him, using his tie to mop at his brow. "Please God," he begged silently, "Please let that man tell Mr. Holmes anything he wants to know. Please."

* * *

Sherlock was pacing again – _still?_ -

He didn't know how much time had passed, but he guessed at least three hours because the effects of the LSD were still "peaking." The hallucinations and synaesthesia rolled through him over and over. When it was at its lowest, he felt almost lucid. The agitation and obsession were still there, but it was more tolerable now. At least, he was aware of it as a symptom of the drugs he'd been given, even if he couldn't control it.

For some reason, the insides of his knees itched like mad. The feeling was familiar but he didn't know why. Sherlock couldn't stop walking, back and forth diagonally in the room, more now due to the itching, crawling sensations in his legs and arms. The feeling was pure torture when he stood still, only somewhat alleviated by pacing the room.

When he couldn't walk any more, he tried lying down. The twitching in his legs when he did so was maddening. He could only manage a few minutes' rest – if it could be called that – before he was up again, counting his steps, breathing in rapid gasps that whistled past his teeth. His hands were twitching as well, making him painfully aware of the leather that bound his wrists.

Moriarty had begun speaking to him some time earlier, making snide comments and gleeful little observations about his discomfort.

"Why don't you have a seat, Sherlock? You look tired," he said now, faux sympathy dripping from his voice.

_- Clearly hoping for a reaction. Doesn't he know I can barely respond? -_

"You know I can't," Sherlock ground out, his usually perfect enunciation lost behind his clenched teeth. His jaw was stiff, almost too sore for him to speak.

The room swirled about him brightly. He promised his tired legs that after walking just four more times across the room he would try to rest again. The LSD was reemerging with a vengeance, and he had to remind himself the floor was solid despite what he saw and smelled. He was sure the sealant they'd used on the wood floor had liquified and he was slipping in it, feeling the fluid ooze between his toes, then turn as sticky as liquid amber, threatening to freeze him in place.

_- Can't let that happen. Have to keep walking. Can't lie down now, my hair will get stuck in it. - _

"Sherlock, of course you can sit down if you like. Is it too hot in there for you?" Moriarty's voice was chiding but underneath the playfulness was real curiosity.

Sherlock growled under his breath. "Shit," he murmured. The LSD was still too potent in his system to resist Moriarty's suggestion of heat. He felt himself begin to sweat as the air in the room grew thick and humid. The leather restraints felt even more restrictive in the heat. He swore the leather was shrinking because of it.

_- But no, nothing changed. It's Moriarty doing this, making you feel that you're burning up. - _Sherlock realized then that the acid was retreating a bit from his brain once again, but still far from releasing him.

"Tell me truthfully, Darling. Are the hallucinations a bit much? Tell Daddy what's wrong." The curiosity in his voice now hinted at confusion.

Sherlock turned in a half-circle, staring up towards the ceiling. It felt as if he and Moriarty were having a normal conversation, but Sherlock began to suspect there were minutes of silence between each exchange. The drugs were fading – at least the acid was. He paused his restless movements. _- Moriarty doesn't know why I have to keep pacing, keep counting my steps. Why not? -_

"You should know," Sherlock said. "You had Kitty give me the drugs. Three and ten, don't you remember?" He asked accusingly.

"Well of course I **re-mem-ber**," He drawled. "But really, you should be feeling quite a bit more sedate … aww, you got me! You do know how to draw me out, don't you? Even now."

Sherlock shook his head. He resumed his pacing. "You gave me something, something to calm me, rein me in, but it didn't work. It did the opposite, and you weren't expecting that." His jaw was loosening a bit, though still sore. He paid it little heed. There was a puzzle to be solved now.

The starflakes were still all around, on the walls, floor, and ceiling, but they weren't as colorful or compelling. He could **almost** ignore them. _- Probably more time has passed than I thought, then. Effects of the LSD are starting to level out, so four hours; five at the most. - _

Sherlock heard Moriarty talking to someone quietly. "Go look in on him, will you?"

"You forgot to mute the microphone!" He shouted before discretion could keep him from speaking. _- Knowledge is power, you moron. -_

"Oooh! You're right, I **am** getting sloppy. Must be all the sloppy sex I had watching you squirm. Truly gorgeous. A masterpiece of movement. But I must say it was not the show I paid for, and I don't like when things don't go to plan. Just relax, Shirly, someone will come round to see to you."

Sherlock could almost hear the 'click' of the information he needed slotting into place. "You gave me an antipsychotic, a phenothiazine. I'm guessing compazine, am I right?"

"Mmm … could be," was the reply.

"Tell your little friend to bring Procyclidine."

"Ahh, I'm afraid we don't have that in stock," Jim said, sounding every bit the apologetic chemist.

"Clonazepam, then. Four milligrams, intramuscular injection," Sherlock said, feeling very odd telling Moriarty what to do for a change. "And Diphenhydramine."

"And why, pray tell, should I do that?"

"Oh for God's sake, don't be an idiot. It's called akathisia. **Look it up!**" He shouted in frustration, shaking his head to dislodge the damp curls that hung into his eyes. Sherlock hated that his hair was so long it was in his face, more so because he was unable to reach it to push it back off his forehead.

He kept walking, this time following the path of the walls. His foot knocked into something porcelain, and he kicked it in frustration. It crashed against the opposite wall. He heard it break, but his senses were still off. He couldn't tell how far away it was or how many pieces it broke into, and in his frazzled, agitated state he continued to walk forward. On the way, he knocked over the water bottle as well. He twisted his arms about angrily, but the restraints held firm. He kept moving his arms, though, because it seemed to help keep his fingers from twitching, a bit.

_When Mummy told him she couldn't stay, he'd started to cry. He held her hand tighter and tighter until she said it hurt, but he couldn't let her go. He felt Mycroft pulling at his shoulders, gently at first, then strong enough to break his grip when he saw her wince._

"Not. Now." Sherlock said under his breath.

"Be careful, little one, be careful!" Moriarty exclaimed. There was – _what sounds like_ – real concern in his voice now. "I told you not to damage the merchandise."

"I'm so **very **sorry I broke your crap crockery," Sherlock replied petulantly.

"No, sexy. I mean **you**. Sheesh, keep up." Jim teased.

Sherlock somehow found the self-control not to reply. He turned, crossed the room in the other direction, and found that if he leaned back against the corner, the pressure on his arms helped keep his hands from spasming. By locking his knees and tensing the muscles in his legs, he could make himself stand still – just. It would have to do while he waited.

* * *

_**AN:** Agitation, anxiety, and muscle twitching (akathisia, or acathisia) are all symptoms of an adverse reaction to phenothiazines and derivatives, including compazine. I can assure you it's extremely unpleasant. _

_Again, my utmost gratitude to the readers, reviewers, followers, and favorite-ers!_

**DFTBA**


	13. Caring Is Not An Advantage

**TRIGGER WARNING: Umm, yeah. There's some nasty stuff here involving child abuse of a sexual nature. It wasn't in the original plan, but it explains some things too well to be left out. You can skip it. I put a warning in bold (and lots of spaces) before and after the scene. The story will still make sense without it, because it'll be referenced later, but not in detail.**

**So here we go.**

* * *

**Caring is not an advantage**

_Sherlock is better, then worse, then gone._

* * *

Sherlock heard the bolt –_ fucking finally! _- sliding out of the wall, and the door was opened. He knew instantly that it wasn't Kitty. This was the man who'd helped her bring in the table and chairs before Jim's attack. He stood up straight, warily listening as he heard the man pull two syringes from his pocket.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked. "And will you please untie my goddamned hands now? This is getting ridiculous."

The man said nothing. Sherlock heard the crackle, and Moriarty replied for him. "Yes, let's do that."

He heard the man's feet shuffling in a half circle as he returned to the doorframe. "After," Moriarty clarified.

Sherlock didn't react. He wanted his twitching limbs and his scattered thinking to stop more than he wanted to be released from the restraints, anyway.

The man returned to his side, and found a spot on his arm that hadn't already been injected in the past few days. Sherlock heard him uncapping the needle with his teeth before he pressed it into his arm. The man gave him the second injection too close to one of the others, and he hissed slightly but remained still. Once the man was done, he turned back to the door, and retrieved a key from the hallway table. The man gave Sherlock a push into the nearest wall and held him there with a hand to his back while he fumbled with the key that would release his arms.

Sherlock tilted his chin upward and blinked several times, his eyes tracking back and forth though still unseeing. Finally, he was relieved of the leather restraints. The man quickly left the room, locking it behind him.

Sherlock turned to lean with his back against the wall, rubbing at his wrists slowly. The medication to control the reaction he'd had was doing its work, and he was finally able to think again. The LSD was still in his system, and though the effects had almost faded, he was left with the ability to remember everything in lurid detail. He guessed this was the result Moriarty had originally intended.

What puzzled him most was **why** the memories of his boarding school – _glorified children's mental hospital, really_ – were so terrifying, and why he hadn't remembered them until today. The experience there had been unpleasant, to say the least, but that didn't explain why he'd tried so hard to delete it. -_ Almost succeeded, too. Almost. _-

What he'd never admitted to John, or anyone else, was that he couldn't truly "delete" all of his unwanted memories. For those he was unable to erase, he'd constructed the Catacombs, deep beneath his Mind Palace. It was a place he'd imagined into being to put away the memories that refused to disappear. He never went there, and he never talked about it to anyone.

But now the memories of the school were crystal clear. In his three years at his first boarding school - away from the private school he'd attended near his home - Sherlock had learned his way around the grounds as well as he knew London's streets. It wasn't something he was proud of, though; it was something he did without really thinking about it.

Building A: The School. Building B: The Hospital. Both were single storey, drab and functional, but fastidiously maintained. There were tidy lawns and carefully trimmed hedgerows, meant for parents to feel comfortable leaving their problem children there. Sherlock had noted almost as soon as he arrived that there was really nowhere outside that was truly private – the hedges and trees had also been trimmed to allow staff to observe the children anywhere on the grounds.

This boarding school was for "children needing special attention," he'd been told when he arrived. He knew what that meant before he was ever walked through the gate: children whose parents and teachers couldn't deal with them. He knew well enough that he was here because he had what his therapist called "anger management issues." He was certain what really landed him here was embarrassing the family once too often with inappropriate "deductions" at dinner parties, and screaming tantrums when he was pulled aside to be scolded, usually by Mycroft.

Almost everyone in his world was an idiot – didn't they see why that would drive him to distraction? No, of course not. They were idiots. Out of the lot of them, Mycroft seemed to understand him best. Not well, of course, but he did understand the frustration of trying to have an intellectual conversation with someone about as clever as a box of rocks. Mycroft had been born with the ability to deal with it. Sherlock was not.

The good girls and boys went to their classes. When they were bad, they were sent to the hospital building.

Though he wouldn't tell him so, summers with Mycroft were the best part of his year. Finally there was someone to talk with, someone who wasn't tedious or stupid. He began dreading his return to the school weeks before Mycroft took him back, but was too proud to show it. Too proud to tell Mycroft how much he hated it there, how frightened and lonely he often was, and how desperately he wanted to stay with him at Uni.

His parents came to visit at Christmas. Unlike most students, he was not taken home. He didn't know if it was because they were afraid of him without Mycroft's calming influence, or if the school staff told them he wasn't ready. It was probably a combination of the two.

When Sherlock lost his temper at school – far too often, he was constantly reminded – he was given demerits until the teachers had enough and sent him to the hospital side. He stayed there until he could control his emotions well enough that the nurses deemed him ready to return to his classes. He didn't really need the lessons there – he already knew more than most of the teachers.

Sherlock had learned quickly not to respond when the other children called him "Girly Sherly," as they so often did. It wasn't worth the demerits he received when he kicked or punched them. Often, he simply told the child the unpleasant details of their life until he'd reduced them to tears. He was starting to favour that means of retaliation because it didn't leave a physical mark, but the kids usually told on him and he was punished all the same.

Nobody wanted to go to Building B. There were locks on all the doors, and the kids were given medications that made them sleepy and numb. They were more strict there as well. One demerit earned them another day in the building. In Building A, they were punished with removal of privileges, like the library or television. Sherlock didn't care about the telly, but he was bereft without access to books.

He was curious about everything, of course, but one person in particular stuck in his mind. He couldn't stand it when he wasn't allowed in the library, and observing the other students alleviated some of his boredom. Only one had been able to do so for longer than an hour.

There was a boy there his same age, supposedly in the same classes, but he was almost always in Building B. He had been the same size as Sherlock when they'd both arrived at age eleven, now at least three inches shorter at age thirteen. He had black hair and dark, piercing brown eyes. That wasn't what interested Sherlock. The boy had a quick wit and a fiery temper, and wasn't afraid to use them against anyone there, including the teachers. Sherlock liked that about Jimmy, and though they didn't talk often in school, Sherlock sought out his company when he was confined to the hospital.

His least pleasant memories were when he began puberty. _- Of course - _After Sherlock turned thirteen, his behaviour, which had improved in the previous two years took a turn. His teachers and therapist told him this was "normal," and "his greatest challenge," as if it were a good thing. They promised if he could learn to control himself during this awkward phase, he'd be allowed to go back to public school.

Not long after he experienced the humiliation of acne and body odor, Sherlock had his first nocturnal emission. It happened in his bunk at school, and it confused and frightened him because of the feelings it brought with it. He knew that he wasn't supposed to express any sentiment, and he absolutely had to get out of this place at the end of the term. Feelings always got him in trouble. He reminded himself of the school mottos, in every classroom and hallway.

_**Use your mind, not your mouth.**_

_**Feelings are meant to be controlled.**_

_**Caring is not an advantage.**_

_**Outbursts will not be tolerated.**_

...

Sherlock knew full well that calling the science teacher a moron for his poor understanding of organic chemistry would be his third demerit, but he couldn't stop himself. As he was pulled out of the classroom, yelling behind him, "You know I'm right!" he hoped he wouldn't have to be in "the hospital" for long. The only good thing about the place was his friend Jimmy, who practically lived there, and for some reason didn't seem to mind.

Unfortunately, as Sherlock was shepherded through the door and heard it lock behind him, he saw Jimmy and knew at once he was in a foul mood. The door led to the common room, where they were allowed to spend their time if they behaved "properly."

Jimmy saw him as he entered, and immediately walked over to Sherlock and punched him in the gut. Sherlock's temper immediately flared beyond his control, and he rose and yanked Jimmy by his hospital robe and threw him to the ground. Jimmy's head knocked loudly on the linoleum, and he shrieked at the pain. They were separated by two nurses, and both taken into seclusion rooms next to each other. Sherlock glowered at Jimmy as they were pushed through the doors to the tiny rooms. It wasn't how he wanted to begin his stint in the hospital.

Sherlock was immediately set on the bed, his ankles and wrists encased in leather restraints, though the straps connecting them to the bed were let out enough he could move a bit.

"That was NOT my fault!" He screamed at Vincent, the nurse pressing his shoulders into the mattress. "You know Jimmy started it! What would **you** have done!? Let me GO-"

He stilled as a second nurse, Charlene, came into the room carrying a syringe. He knew what came next. They would use the chemical restraints to keep him quiet. His mind would be of little use to him. He'd be forced into a state where his emotions were controlled, but his mind went with them as well. He hated it, every time.

"NO. Come on, please? I didn't start it! You saw him … please?" His words fell on deaf ears. There were protocols for this type of acting out, and Sherlock would not be excepted from them. While Vincent held him down, Charlene gave him the injection in his upper arm. As the pain spread out into the muscle, he knew it wouldn't be long before he was what they considered "calm." In his mind, they simply turned him into a zombie who would dully behave as they required.

"Ohhh goddamn it. You motherfuckers! My parents will ..." Sherlock trailed off, beginning to feel the effects of the drug as the nurses prepared to leave him in the white room, empty but for the bed to which he was confined.

"Your parents are the ones who enrolled you, Sherlock," Charlene replied calmly. "We have their permission to do what is necessary to teach you to control your impulses and emotions. Now just lie back and rest. We'll be back in a little while to check on you."

"FUCK YOU!" Sherlock shouted as the last of his strength drained from him.

* * *

"Temper, Sherly!" Moriarty's voice was gentle now.

Sherlock was hoarse – _was I shouting?_ - but he wasn't certain why. He pushed off from the wall and made his way around the room. He found the bottle of water, drinking greedily from it before answering Moriarty.

He took a breath. "So this is it? This is all you've got, Moriarty? I've been starved, hit over the head, drugged **several** times, you a-attacked m-me … " The words stuck in Sherlock's throat, making him pause.

"Attacked you?" Moriarty said, curious.

"Yes, attacked!" Sherlock was exasperated now. "You- you **raped** me, you son of a bitch!"

"You don't think I could really do that to you, do you Sherly?" Moriarty sounded hurt.

"You know you did," Sherlock seethed.

"You must have been hallucinating. I did drug you, but it was just for fun. I had no idea those memories would come back or I'd never have done it. I couldn't hurt you like that. You were my only friend."

"Friend?! What memories? What the bloody hell are you on about?" Sherlock was shrieking now – _again?_ - and took another drink of water to cool his throat and give him a moment to think.

"Sherlock, really. You don't remember little Jimmy? Little Jimmy from school?"

Sherlock's mouth opened, but it took him several seconds to form the words. "That. Wasn't. You. I'd remember."

"Are you sure? You thought I raped you. But it wasn't me, Sherly. It wasn't me." Moriarty's voice held sympathy and grief.

"It was Carlo."

"I … it was … " The memory he'd tried hardest to push down came back in force, stunning him with its ferocity. Sherlock stumbled and dropped his water bottle, the remaining contents splashing over him. He stood stock still, utterly lost.

* * *

**TRIGGER WARNING: THIS SCENE CONTAINS CHILD SEXUAL ABUSE. NON-GRAPHIC, BUT RATED M FOR DESCRIPTIONS AND LANGUAGE. PLEASE SKIP TO THE NEXT SECTION NOW IF YOU AREN'T COMFORTABLE READING ABOUT IT.**

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Sherlock woke up groggily to find Carlo opening his robe. He registered the sensation of his pants being pulled down to his knees. He was logy and confused, and wondered if Carlo was checking for bruising where Jimmy had punched him.

Sherlock lifted his head as much as he could, looking down at Carlo, who was wearing latex gloves. In his hands were several flannels. "What … " Were his bathing privileges to be revoked as well?

"You need to be clean, Sherlock. You'll feel much better," Carlo said to him. It seemed that nothing of his outward appearance had changed, but Sherlock suddenly shivered. He knew somehow that this was bad, but his muddled thinking couldn't sort out how he knew.

Carlo began by rubbing Sherlock's throat and chest with a warm, wet flannel before moving to his ribs and stomach. Sherlock sucked in a pained breath as Carlo rubbed the spot where Jimmy had hit him. Carlo just smiled.

He continued to Sherlock's bony hips, painting them with the damp cloth. "You've grown so much this year," Carlo said appreciatively, looking him up and down. Sherlock pulled futilely at the leather around his wrists. He knew something was very wrong. Carlo had never looked at him that way before.

"Ah, yes," Carlo commented, stopping to pull all four straps tight against the bed, pinning Sherlock. He reached for a second flannel, rubbing the wet cloth over his lower belly, then to the inside of his thighs.

"Carlo? Please. Don't." He remembered his first "wet dream," and how every one since had left him aching to touch himself, but too afraid to do so. "This isn't right, Carlo. Please stop." His calm was enforced by the drugs coursing through him, but he didn't want this.

"Sherlock, you need to be clean. Young men are dirty creatures, you know. You'll feel better when you're clean." Carlo began massaging Sherlock's groin with the cloth, rubbing in gentle circles, slowly increasing the pressure.

"There's a good lad," Carlo told him. "Soon you'll be clean and refreshed."

"I … uhh," Sherlock gasped. There was that feeling again, the one that woke him in the night with increasing frequency, and he knew feelings were wrong. Sentiment. He would be punished for this, no matter what Carlo said. He was sure of that much.

"No." Sherlock said, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Just relax. Once you're clean you can go to the common room. I'll even bring you a book. Won't that be nice?" Carlo asked. He lifted another wet cloth from the pile at the foot of the bed, lifting Sherlock's hips to rub the flannel between his buttocks. The shifting pulled Sherlock's restraints uncomfortably tight, and he groaned.

"That's a good boy," Carlo said, mistaking Sherlock's discomfort for pleasure. He continued rubbing, massaging, until Sherlock could feel himself warming in that familiar, confusing way. He hated his body for betraying him. He closed his eyes and waited once he realized that Carlo would not consider him 'clean' until he'd tipped over the edge. Sherlock heard the other boys talk about touching themselves and what happened when they did, but he'd never tried it. He went limp, waiting for it all to be over and willing himself to sleep. He'd almost managed it when there was a strange tugging sensation deep inside him. He moaned involuntarily, overwhelmed with a feeling of intense physical relief, yet disgusted with himself. After the feeling had passed, he opened his eyes to see Carlo washing his stomach again.

"There, now isn't that better?" Carlo asked, pulling Sherlock's pants back into place and arranging his hospital robe to cover him.

Somehow, Sherlock knew that answering was the wrong choice, and simply turned his head away, pretending to fall into slumber. He felt Carlo place a gentle kiss on his forehead, gather up the cloths and leave the room. Sherlock felt his eyes start to water, a tear trailing its way across his temple, into his hair.

Sentiment. He would certainly be punished if he showed any emotion when he was released from the room. He took a deep breath and willed his feelings away, working to delete the experience in its entirety.

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**END TRIGGER WARNING**

* * *

After Carlo, Sherlock has no trouble controlling his emotions. Jimmy apologised and Sherlock and he became close. So close that when Sherlock was allowed back into the school, Jimmy made a point of becoming a model patient, and soon joined him in his classes. They passed notes and tore apart the faculty and other students, but kept it to themselves.

Sherlock showed no outward sentiment, allowing reason and his natural intellect and gifts of observation to grow. The only one who could draw him out was Jimmy, and only in private. His teachers were pleased with his outward progress, assuring him that if he continued as he was, he would be back at public school in no time.

Jimmy later told him what he'd done when they were sent into seclusion, and Sherlock had laughed. It helped him to push the memories further down.

"So I asked Carlo, 'Did you know there are more than two dozen ways to kill a full-grown man with your bare hands?'"

"You didn't!" Sherlock was incredulous.

"I did!" Jimmy replied, smiling at Sherlock.

"Go on, then. What happened next?"

...

"Really, Jimmy," said Carlo, a burly nurse who had a frustratingly calm demeanor. "You mustn't keep on like this. Don't you want to go home?"

"NO!" Jimmy roared, the muscles in his neck tensing, his brows knitting together with rage. He pulled and twisted in the leather cuffs as Stephen entered the room to administer the medication. Stephen looked to Carlo, who reluctantly pulled the straps tightly against the bed-rails, effectively pinning Jimmy to the bed. Stephen approached the bed and quickly gave Jimmy the injection while Carlo held him down.

"This will all be over soon," Jimmy said quietly as the nurses left his room.

Carlo turned back, giving him a pitying look. The door clicked shut.

"For you," Jimmy mumbled darkly.

...

Sherlock was laughing uncontrollably by the time Jimmy finished the story, the sounds breaking from the voice he was used to into his newly acquired baritone, then back again. "You sir," he said between gasps, trying to get his breath back, "are a fucking **genius**."

* * *

Sherlock was dumped back into the present without warning. Into a tiny room. Blind. Helpless.

All at once, emotions crashed into his Mind Palace, the fortress of reason that kept him sane. They were both obliterated in the collision, the Catacombs exposed. Sherlock fell to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

Moriarty smiled at the computer screen. "Hmph. Well, that was almost too easy. Sebs, my love, will you go down and fetch him please? Oh, and send Kitty away. We won't be needing her any longer."

* * *

_**AN:** Eventually, we will catch up with Mycroft and the rest of the gang. I started a new job last week, and it's slowed the publication of this story considerably. Apologies. Also sorry for the extended rough patch, but I'll make up for it with lots of Johnlocky hurt/comfort goodness. Eventually.  
_

_Thank you again to everyone who takes the time to read, review, and favorite!  
_

_**DFTBA**  
_


	14. The Iceman Thaws

**The Iceman Thaws**

_John sees something new in Mycroft Holmes.  
_

* * *

"Now is not the time, John. I have work to do." Mycroft sat at the end of the ostentatiously long meeting table. John sat in the chair to his left.

"Damned right you do! What the hell could be more important than finding your brother, anyway?" John shot back.

"Doctor Watson, that is the work to which I am referring. I am not pleased with the outcome of my interview with your kidnapper any more than you are. The man gave me – us – essentially nothing new. I believe, however, that there must be more leads to pursue, even if we have not yet discovered them. **That** is the work I must attend to, and I don't believe you can be of assistance. For now, anyway."

"Don't go cold and formal on me. We both know I can help. I need to," John said angrily.

"I don't think Sherlock, once located, will be pleased if I have to report that you were injured – or worse – trying to find him."

Mycroft was still using his most detached manner, something John had never appreciated. "I don't think I care." John stated flatly. "We both believe that he **was** alive. Clearly, you think he still is. So do I. You know more than you're saying. It's not-" He clutched the edge of the table, his knuckles going white, and looked directly into Mycroft's eyes. "It's not fair to keep me in the dark. It's not. It's hard enough knowing, and not knowing. Please, Mycroft, let me in."

Mycroft sighed heavily, and found himself staring at his own hands against the highly-polished tabletop. "There is some evidence," he began, "that Moriarty was on the rooftop … that day. There was a pool of blood, hastily cleaned, that NSY overlooked. It was discovered when my men conducted a separate investigation."

Mycroft paused briefly to allow John time to absorb the information before he continued. John's eyebrows twitched briefly. Mycroft observed John's reaction, knowing the man was both shocked by the information and at Mycroft's determination to discover the circumstances surrounding the events of that day. _He still thinks I don't care for my brother. Sherlock trained him well._

"My previous – contact – with Moriarty included acquiring his DNA profile. The blood matched. However, it had been previously frozen. I believe you are aware of the significance of that fact."

"So … " John trailed off, thinking. "Moriarty was there, and he … faked his death, too?"

"The evidence suggests it, yes." Mycroft replied.

"What other evidence did your people collect?" John asked. "There had to be more. Sherlock, he … he dropped his phone on the roof. I saw." John's lips twitched at the recollection.

"Indeed. It was too damaged for the NSY to retrieve any of the data, but we were able to obtain his last text messages," Mycroft said.

"Texts?"

"Yes. There were three of interest. Two from Sherlock, the other from a number we cannot identify." Mycroft reached into the briefcase at his side and retrieved a single sheet of paper, passing it to John.

...

_-01.36 16/06/2012-_

Come and play.

Bart's Hospital rooftop.

SH

...

_-01.36 16/06/2012-_

PS. Got something of yours

you might want back.

_...  
_

_-05.13 16/06/2012-_

I'm waiting …

JM

...

John gripped the paper tightly, feeling the edges crumple. "Five thirteen? That's just after I got the call … the paramedic told me that Mrs. Hudson had been shot. Well, someone told me she had, anyway." John grimaced again at how foolish he'd been to believe it, and the argument he'd had with Sherlock then. "But he knew it wasn't true all along."

"Yes."

"So who called me?" John's voice grew louder. He ignored Mycroft's glance of disapproval. "Who called me, god-dammit!?"

"I don't know, John." Mycroft's tone was placating. "We were able to determine it came from St. Bart's, from a public phone on the first floor. That's all, I'm afraid."

"Mycroft," John stood, his voice low. "If you are holding anything back … anything at all-"

"Please sit, John." John hesitated. Mycroft's voice was different, softer. He turned to look and was startled to see Mycroft's indifferent demeanor fall away. He sat.

"My brother and I have had our differences," He began. John snorted softly.

"Of course you believe Sherlock's version of our relationship. He is your best friend, and I haven't the most … expressive personality. But I am asking you – **please** – do not believe for one moment longer that I don't care deeply for my brother. That I don't know how my mistake forced him into such a dangerous position. That I don't think about it every day."

Mycroft paused to take a breath, the slightest shudder evident as he exhaled. "It's very important to me that you believe that I … love Sherlock." He trailed off and turned his face away, waiting for John to speak. It seemed an eternity before he did.

"I, um," John began. "You didn't answer my question," he finished lamely, at a loss for a proper answer. His felt his anger fade away, replaced by confusion and a whisper of sympathy. Seeing Mycroft this way, after nearly two years of being sure he knew the man and his motivations had thrown him completely.

"You don't believe me, then." Mycroft's voice was steady. He turned back towards John, his expression carefully blank.

John looked down, found himself staring at his fingers, clutching the table again. "It's a funny thing," John said. He grimaced briefly, his brows knitting. "I do believe you. But for it to mean anything, you have to let me help look for him. No secrets. Not anymore."

He saw Mycroft's jaw muscles relax slightly. "I give you my word. No secrets. At least, none concerning Sherlock," he said, with the barest hint of levity.

John favored him with a half-smile. "Fair enough."

* * *

Kitty looked up guiltily where she stood just outside the closet door as Moran approached. "What's that?" She demanded, pointing at the syringe held loosely in his left hand.

"Nothing you need to concern yourself with," he said grimly. "James wants you to go now."

"Go? After that!?" She gestured toward the closet. "The walls aren't entirely soundproofed, you know. He needs-"

Moriarty cut her off, his voice coming from yet another speaker in the flat. "Catherine, really. You're embarrassing yourself. And me."

Kitty held her arms stiffly at her sides, fists clenched. "What's that supposed to mean, Jimmy?" She asked angrily. Moran brushed past her and opened the closet. Sherlock lay on the floor, still unconscious. As Moran walked in, she felt the chill inside, the sound of air flowing at full power from the ceiling vent.

"I know how you think," Moriarty continued. "Oh, how you loved protecting little 'Rich Brook' from mean old Sherlock Holmes, even though you knew it was all a lie. How you wanted to care for Sherlock, hold him close and make everything all better. It's just who you are, who you've always been. Even when we were young, you always tried to protect me. From myself, in most cases. Couldn't believe your twin could be so naughty inside." Jim seemed saddened by the recollection.

"I know you can't help yourself. No matter how you try, you're soft inside. I can't risk you spoiling my game, sweet sister, just when the real fun's about to begin. Now you've fulfilled your duties, it's time to go. We'll take over from here."

Kitty opened her mouth to speak, conflicted and hurt. She closed it, knowing better than most how dangerous her brother's anger could be. She whipped around and strode to the kitchen, grabbed her purse from the table and stormed out of the flat without a word.

* * *

Sebastian crouched over the prone figure, muttering to himself. _Why do James' plans always have to be so fucking complicated? _

He had absolute faith that James knew what he was doing, taking Holmes apart like this, but he didn't have to like it. He'd just as soon put a bullet in Sherlock's brain, but James loved games far too much for that. Moran sighed, and quickly injected Sherlock with the contents of the syringe. At least what James had in mind would cause Sherlock more pain.

* * *

_**AN:** Sorry for the delay. My computer ate this chapter when it was just about done. Lame._

_Nothing says "Forgive me" like a juicy new Sherlock-centric chapter this Sunday, right? I have several backups this time._

_As always, thank you for your reviews, favorites, follows - and your patience!_

**DFTBA**


	15. Comfort and Confusion

**Comfort and Confusion**

_James Moriarty plays nursemaid._

* * *

Sherlock is half-aware, but not awake. His ears ache from the whirring noise above him, but he can't make his body work to cover them with his hands. It's cold and misty, a few droplets condensing uncomfortably on his bare face. He tries to cough, but finds he can't even do that. He wonders what he's missing. Nothing is adding up, yet he doesn't have the inclination to wonder why. He wishes he were asleep, but knows he is, in a way.

He hears a noise as a door opens, somewhere. There are voices, saying something about Jimmy. His mind tumbles backwards in time.

* * *

He heard his mother's soothing voice, but ignores her to stare at the little family a few feet away. Two children and their parents – a boy and his sister. They were obviously fraternal twins, she in bright ginger braids and a blue and white striped dress, the boy in his best suit, dark blue, shabby but carefully cleaned and pressed. The boy's eyes were dark and unreadable, but the sister was showing enough emotion for them both. The boy was to be admitted this day, too. Obvious.

Sherlock immersed himself in his observations about them because he didn't want this to be happening. Mummy knew. Everyone knew, but they were doing it to him anyway. He turned to Mycroft and received a sad and resigned expression in return. He turned back to Mummy. She was still talking, about her darling baby boy, her good boy, about how much he would learn at the boarding school. He tuned her out, her placating, pointless words reduced to a soft murmuring of unspoken apologies.

His father had told him that in this place, people could help him with his problems. For an exceptionally gifted eleven year old, there was no real explanation other than this: his parents didn't want him. They couldn't handle him, couldn't love him for the brilliant, belligerant mess he was. And no matter how he tried to "behave" and "be good," he could never do it right. Sherlock thinks they were hoping for a Mycroft Junior when mummy got pregnant again, so many years after the birth of her first son. He'd disappointed them, and now they were sending him away.

Sherlock looked back to the family next to his, tuning in to their goodbyes. The girl was crying inconsolably into her hands. "Cathy, please, don't make a scene," Her mother said quietly.

"I **will** make a scene!" Cathy shouted, hands at her sides, stomping her feet. "Why are you taking Jimmy away from me? Why?" She dissolved into tears again, and grabbed her brother, holding him tight.

Their father stood a bit apart from the other three, just as his did. It had been left to them to make the tough decision, and neither quite knew what to do with themselves now the time had come. The boy, Jimmy, allowed his sister's embrace but did nothing to return it. He kept his hands stuffed in his pants pockets and stared into the distance. He had his mother's looks, and his father's brown eyes. Cathy was the reverse, taking her mother's ginger coloring and blue eyes, her father's less-refined features.

"Catherine, really." Jimmy drawled. Sherlock recognized the soft Dublin brogue as consciousness drifted away again. "You're embarrassing yourself. And me ..."

* * *

"You sure he won't wake up before we get there?" Moran asked, for the second time in thirty minutes. He was driving James' London cab, Moriarty sitting in the back clutching Sherlock's unconscious form. Moriarty looked up, and Moran saw the warning glance in the rear-view mirror.

"Sebs ..." he began testily.

"Yes, yes of course James. You know what you're doing. I'm just concerned about the risk of moving him."

"Honey, we're fine. We couldn't stay there. Can't trust my Kitty not to blab. Anyway, we're almost there."

Moran nodded and kept driving.

Moriarty moved his arm closer around Sherlock's waist, allowing the other man's head to droop onto his shoulder. Jim pressed his cheek into Sherlock's hair, his hand trailing lazily over his face. "Don't worry, little one. I'll have you all settled in no time, neat and tidy. We definitely need shave your scruffy little beard." He leaned back a little to get a better look at Sherlock's face. "It really is an embarrassment to beards everywhere." Jim chuckled quietly. "Not to worry. We'll be home soon."

* * *

Sherlock awoke feeling odd. His head hurt and his mouth was dry. He touched the side of his head gingerly before opening his eyes. He was on a soft bed, so large he could nearly swim in it. To his left was a large window with the curtains drawn. The purple duvet over him covered most of his body, except for his left arm.

Sherlock saw the IV drip in his hand, his eyes following the line to the bag hung from the corner of the bed-frame. He turned his head towards the fireplace and observed the man standing at it for a minute. The man stood with his hands in his pockets, almost slouching, facing away from him. He was wearing an expensive suit, his hair almost black. Sherlock groaned, the pain in his head flaring.

The man turned and walked toward the bed. "Sleeping Beauty awakens!" He said cheerfully, flopping onto the bed, facing him. He propped his chin in his hands and grinned. "How are you feeling this morning, Sherly?"

Sherlock groaned again, the movement of the bed triggering nausea to accompany the headache. The man reacted immediately, reaching out to place his hand on Sherlock's forehead, then slowly tracing down his clean-shaven cheek to his jawline before moving his hand away.

"Oh dear," The man said, much more quietly, staring at Sherlock with concern.

"Who … " Sherlock mumbled, his voice strained.

"Sherly?" He said, quirking an eyebrow. "Please say you remember me," he said, quiet pleading in his voice. "It's Jimmy. You haven't forgotten your husband, have you?"

Sherlock furrowed his brows at the man as he watched him retrieve a glass of water from the bedside table. Jimmy held the straw to his lips and he sipped at it half-heartedly before Jimmy put the glass back on the table, staring deep into Sherlock's eyes.

"Jimmy." Sherlock said. "I – I don't remember. I mean, I remember you from … school." He finished quietly, his confusion building into anxiety. - _What happened to me? _- The question died on his lips as Jimmy saddened visibly.

Jimmy sighed. "I'm sorry. Don't be afraid, Sherly. I was expecting too much. You took quite a fall when you passed out this time. It'll all come back to you soon." He sounded more hopeful than reassuring.

"This time. Why did I pass out?"

Jimmy pressed his lips together, frowning slightly. "You were … sick. You need to rest. Don't worry, I'll be here when you wake up," he said. Sherlock knew there was much more than Jimmy was saying about his illness, but settled back and tried to relax.

"I love you, Sherly." Jimmy gently kissed his cheek, clearly hoping for any kind of recognition.

Sherlock didn't turn away, but kept still, unsure of the touch. "I'm sorry, Jimmy. I can't ... I-I don't remember."

"Don't worry, dìdì. You will. You'll get better. I promise."

* * *

_**AN:** Okay, maybe two Sherlock-centric chapters this weekend. I'm planning to post Chapter 16 on Sunday. _

_"Dìdì" means "little brother" in Mandarin. It's also a term of endearment for a beloved young (male) friend. Loosely translated … I don't speak Mandarin. Obviously. Caucasians like myself pronounce it "DEE-dee."  
_

**DFTBA**


	16. Don't Let Go

**Don't Let Go**

_The Storyteller has his day._

* * *

"So?" Moran asked, knowing James knows the topic. He'd just come down the stairs from the bedroom, closing and locking the door at the foot of the stairs quietly after him. The house was small, and old, but in pristine condition after the renovations Moriarty ordered. After the decorator had performed his magic, the place was beautifully appointed, and just a little lived in. Exactly as he'd wanted. Sebastian had a lovely fire going, and James stopped to enjoy the warmth.

"It's going swimmingly, Sebs. Perfect," he replied dreamily, his eyes reflecting the twisting shapes of the flames. "You never know with biotech – they can make rabbits glow, but can they make them stop glowing?"

"It worked, then." Sebastian was a little disappointed. He didn't understand why James was so interested in Sherlock Holmes, not really. If he'd been permanently blinded, surely he'd find him just a little less entertaining? Not that it would affect the detective's mind, but he'd have one less sense to use puzzling out his cases. Then again, watching Sherlock adapt might make James even more fascinated with the man.

"Yep," Moriarty said cheerfully, turning to Moran, who sat across the room. "He's still loopy, but hasn't mentioned anything about blurred vision. Another gold star for Baskerville."

He crossed the small sitting room, accepted the tea Moran offered, and sat next to him on the sofa. "Surprising enough they came up with a synthetic daphne toxin that causes blindness without all the other distressing effects. Better still that they could create an anti-toxin that would reverse it so quickly." He sipped at his tea, regarding Sebastian carefully.

"You wish they hadn't, don't you? Perfected the toxin, that is. Hoped they'd not been able to suppress the other effects. Convulsions, coma … death?"

"I can't say I'd have been too broken up about it, James, but that's no secret."

Moriarty set his cup down on the table in front of the sofa. "Mmm, no. One of the many things I love about you, Sebs. No secrets. Not that you could keep any from me," he added. Jim grinned knowingly, moving closer, his finger tracing the bridge of Moran's nose to the tip, tapping it lightly before moving back a little.

Moriarty bit his bottom lip, giving Sebastian his wide-eyed, adoring gaze, tilting his head forward. The Look That Always Worked, he liked to call it, and it did. Sebastian moved until their foreheads were touching, their lips just inches apart. "Do you have it?" James asked.

Moran groaned and broke his contact with Moriarty, leaning back onto the sofa to stare at the perfect white ceiling. "James, can't you take a day off? An hour? A minute, even? I thought we were having a moment there."

"We were," Jim protested. "We are. Come on, Sebs, you know how impatient I am. I just want to take a little look-see. Promise." He draped his arm over the back of the sofa behind Moran, his left hand tickling the back of his neck.

Sebastian sighed, pulled the iPad Mini from his coat pocket and handed it to Jim.

Moriarty giggled, sliding it open with a touch and quickly tapping the icon for the video feed in the bedroom. "Remember," he said distractedly, taking in Sherlock sleeping on the bed, "this is never to leave your person."

"Right then," Moran said, swiftly removing the device from Moriarty's hand, making as if to return it to his pocket.

"Hey!" Moriarty squeaked, slapping Sebastian's chest playfully.

"Just following orders, boss," Moran replied. "Plus, you promised you only wanted a 'little look-see' remember?" He held the iPad loosely. "I think you need to spend some time with your **actual** boyfriend. Don't you?" Moriarty nodded slightly, and Moran slipped the device back into his pocket.

"Husband," Jim remarked.

"Oh, we're married now? I like the sound of that."

Moriarty rolled his eyes dramatically. "To him, silly. I'm pretending to be married to him, remember? My grand and glorious plan?"

Sebastian covered his hurt feelings a moment too late. Moriarty's eyes turned serious as he leaned over to embrace him, putting his leg between Moran's. "He's just my 'husband,' Sebs. You, my love, are-" his eyes darted to the side momentarily, "-my love." He gave Moran his most endearing half-smile. "My lovely love."

Sebastian laughed, finally, pulling Jim's body over his for a long kiss.

* * *

Sherlock awoke to the slight dip of the mattress as Jimmy sat carefully across from him on the bed. He opened his eyes, noting the headache had receded during sleep.

"Sorry, love," Jimmy half-whispered to him. "I was hoping not to wake you."

"It's okay," he says, pushing himself into a sitting position. It wasn't easy to move, but he managed. - _Wearing clean pyjamas, recently bathed and shaved. Been out a while, then. _- Jimmy is quick to pile the pillows up behind him, then trails his fingers lovingly across Sherlock's arm. Moriarty is still impeccably dressed.

"What happened, Jimmy? To me. Why do I need this-" he gestured to the IV line, still attached to him, "-in my hand?"

"Oh, yes. I'm so sorry I forgot," Jimmy replied, moving off the bed and quickly padding to Sherlock's side. "It's empty, anyway," he says, glancing at the bag. He grabbed a plaster from the table at the side of the bed. He expertly removed the tiny IV tube from his hand, covering the site with the plaster. His movements suggested he'd done it many times before.

"Jimmy."

Moriarty sighed, resignation etched on his face. "Scooch over. I need to sit down."

Sherlock moved his legs to make room for him to sit. Moriarty sat sideways on the bed, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's face. _- Why is Jimmy the one who needs to sit down? -_

"You had an episode. A bad one, this time. And I wasn't sure … " he trailed off, then, breaking his stare to look across the room. "I wasn't sure you were coming back to me. After all I went through to finally get you home …"

"Jimmy, please. I need to know. What 'episode?' What are you talking about? I need to know," he repeated, sitting up a bit more, his look sharp and determined.

Jimmy sighed again. "You … there are times that you can't handle certain memories. The feelings, that is. You've always been one for the facts. I should have expected you'd need to know everything."

"You and I, we've been lovers since **that** school," He began. "And your brother-"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said coldly.

"Yes. You're remembering. That's um, that's good, I suppose. He never liked me. He though I was a bad influence, a terrible choice of partner. So when you went back to public school, he made sure we didn't see one another. He wouldn't let you call, write, nothing. No contact. He made sure of it. Once I got out – about six months after you did – I began planning. I'd heard nothing from you, but I knew you couldn't cut me out of your life so completely."

Jimmy paused, remembering. "It wasn't hard to find you. You'd told me where you lived. I also knew they'd have sent you to another boarding school, so I waited until the session ended. I found you, out for a walk. We … it was magical." Moriarty's eyes filled at the memory.

Sherlock stirred, finally, and took Jimmy's hand in his. "But what about this?" He gestured at the bed in frustration. "Those obviously aren't the memories I couldn't handle, Jimmy. And why do I have these bruises?" He raised his forearms, showing the rings of brown and purple covering his wrists. "Why am I not in hospital, if I was so ill?"

"Yes, alright," Moriarty shook his head as if to clear his recollections of the past.

"You have nightmares about our school. Sometimes, it happens when you're awake. They come on suddenly, and you haven't time to cope with them, especially if it happens when you're alone. You lash out, sometimes hurt yourself. This time, you simply fell. You passed out and hit your head on the hearth." He gestured towards the fireplace across the room.

_Immaculate. Recently scrubbed. _- His curiosity grew as the facts were laid before him, data clicking into place in his mind. If what Jimmy was telling him had caused an 'episode' before, he should be falling to pieces now. - _He still isn't telling. Probably trying to protect me. - _

"I was downstairs, and I heard you fall. I was terrified. All that blood, you see. But I know how you feel about hospitals, so I called your nurse. Jennifer. She'd taken care of you many times before. When you awoke two days ago, you were still – agitated. Kept trying to hurt yourself. Jennifer said it was too dangerous to sedate you because you had a concussion. So we had to restrain you to the bed." Moriarty saw the flash of anxiety in Sherlock's eyes, felt his body go stiff. "Just for a little while," He finished quickly.

"I hate hospitals because of … school?" - _No, because of __**Him**__. _-

"Carlo," Sherlock whispered, his voice small. Moriarty's eyes widened as Sherlock began shivering under the blankets in the warm bedroom. He moved, trying to get away, his movements uncoordinated and desperate as a trapped bird.

"Shhh, baby. It's okay. It's okay. You're safe." He put his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, gently pushing him back into the pillows. Sherlock began to thrash weakly, and Moriarty maintained the touch as he draped himself over the terrified man, propping his elbows on the bed, his hands beside Sherlock's head.

"Don't, Sherly. Look at me. You're safe, in our home. I'm here. Please," he said, gently stroking Sherlock's curls. "Look at me. Look at me. Breathe, sweetheart, just breathe with me. Come on, nice and slow. Remember? One, two, three. You know this one. You can do it." Moriarty took a deep, slow breath, held it for three seconds, then slowly released it.

Sherlock breathed in, exhaled a strangled cry as he forced himself to still and look into Jimmy's eyes. He realized he'd been gasping, pulled hard by the memories. - _Just breathe. Breathe with Jimmy. I can do that. _- He followed Jimmy's slow, calm breaths, their eyes locked as he gradually calmed enough to breathe normally. His breath hitched once, twice, and he began to sob.

"Jimmy," he cried out, sounding as utterly lost as he felt. He wrapped his arms around Moriarty's back, pulling him closer. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry," he cried into Moriarty's shoulder, feeling his warm hands around him, bringing them even closer together.

"No, it's okay," He whispered into Sherlock's hair. "You're going to be alright. It's okay now. Just don't let go. I'm here. Right here and now. Don't let go."

Sherlock felt small drops fall into his hair as Moriarty cried silently.

- _Don't let go. Don't let go. Don't let go. _-

* * *

_**AN**: There will be Johnlock eventually. I promise. _

_Daphne, also called spurge laurel, lady laurel, paradise plant, or dwarf bay, is a small shrub about 1–1.5 metres in height. They are noted for their scented flowers and poisonous berries. It blooms in early spring, before the appearance of the leaves, with sweet-scented, rose-purple flowers clustered about the stem. It contains mezerein, a toxic skin irritant, and another toxin called daphnin. In addition to temporary blindness, daphne poisoning may also cause complications that include convulsions, coma, and death._

**DFTBA**


	17. Falling Into Place

**Falling Into Place**

_In which Moriarty fills in the gaps._

* * *

"Feeling a bit better?" Moriarty asked, stroking Sherlock's hair as the last of his tears subsided.

"Yes," he said, moving his arms up to encircle Jim's back, "Thanks to you." Sherlock realized then that he was covered in sweat. "Wouldn't mind a shower, though." He grinned ruefully at Moriarty.

"Of course, my dear. It's through there," he said, pointing to a door just to the right of the fireplace. "Can you manage, or do you want some help?" Moriarty winked at him.

"Umm … I can manage it, I think. Yes?" He looked to Jimmy for reassurance, who nodded encouragingly.

"Alright then. I'll be just downstairs making tea if you need anything. Your clothes are in the armoire." With that, Moriarty eased himself off of Sherlock, planting a chaste kiss on his cheek before moving off the bed and leaving the room.

Sherlock sat up, taking in the large bedroom he apparently shared with Jimmy. The walls were a light blue-green. The furniture was a matching set of large mahogany wood pieces. Victorian. If Jimmy's suit was anything to go by, they were both authentic and quite expensive. He stood and opened the window curtains, giving him a view of the well-kept little garden below in the late morning light. There were high hedges behind the garden, obscuring the view of the narrow road he could see winding along the hills beyond.

He walked over to the mirror atop the dresser, bare feet padding over the patterned Persian rug. He looked a mess. His hair was stuck to his head with sweat and he was, by his estimation, far too thin. There were dark half-moons under his red-rimmed eyes. He looked down at his arms and saw the ugly bruises on his wrists again _- Don't think about it –_ before stepping into the bathroom. It was the same color as the bedroom, with ornate silver fixtures to match the décor of the other room. None of it looked familiar. He stepped into the shower, turning the water on as hot as he could bear it, and stood under it for a while, letting the water pour down on him.

* * *

Jimmy puttered in the kitchen, setting biscuits on a tray as he prepared to make tea. Moran had left when Moriarty had gone upstairs. It was time to complete the image of domestic bliss with Sherlock, not that he'd wanted to go.

Moriarty sighed, wishing that Sebs was enjoying the game as much as he was. He waited until he heard the shower running for several minutes, then said aloud, "Time to release the hounds." He pulled out the drawer next to the refrigerator, moving aside the cutlery until he found a small button at the back. He pressed the button, and smiled at the slight hiss through the pipe leading upstairs, concealed behind the wall. He waited five minutes while the kettle boiled, then pressed the button again to cut off the flow of gas to the bathroom. Humming to himself, he set about placing the tea service on the table in front of the sofa.

* * *

Sherlock tentatively walked down the stairs after twenty minutes, wearing a suit Jimmy had no doubt bought for him. The dark grey trousers, matching jacket, and white silk shirt fit him perfectly, but felt a little too posh. He emerged into the sitting room where Jimmy was waiting for him on the sofa.

"Don't you look dashing," Moriarty said, patting the cushion next to him on the sofa.

Sherlock crossed the room and sat carefully, allowing Jimmy to pour the tea. "You bought this for me-" he gestured toward his clothes "-didn't you?"

"I did!" Moriarty chirped excitedly. "Do you remember our shopping trip after you came home?"

"No … it's just, I mean, it's very nice. It just doesn't feel like something I'd normally wear. I couldn't work out the tie, at any rate. Out of practice, I suppose."

"Mm, yes. I'm not surprised. You weren't allowed ties, before. No idea why, but John had a rather strict dress code for you." Moriarty sipped his tea, waiting for a reaction.

"John. John Watson, yes?" Sherlock furrowed his brows, trying to remember.

"Yes," Moriarty replied unhappily. "He was your flatmate … ostensibly. Your brother hired him to look after you to make sure we stayed out of contact." He looked up at Sherlock. "I found you, of course. You were living with him in Central London, solving crimes for Scotland Yard, of all things. Mycroft had set that up as well. Had a DI there in his employ, feeding you cases, keeping you distracted." He sighed.

"I couldn't do anything right away, but when I realized how … unpleasant your living arrangements had become, I knew I had to get you out."

"Unpleasant?" Sherlock placed his teacup back in its saucer.

"Well, John wasn't the kindest man. He'd been in the Army before he was assigned to you. He knew how to give orders, and how to fight. You didn't. He could be quite cruel to you, at the flat. He was a doctor, in the Army, and quite adept at patching you up when things got rough. He acted as if he cared for you – adored you, even – when anyone else was around, but he made sure you didn't have any other friends. You rarely had contact with anyone beyond him, Mycroft, and Lestrade."

"Lestrade is the DI from Scotland Yard, isn't he?" He didn't need Jimmy to answer. - _John Watson, yelling at him. Calling him a machine. Punching him, trying to strangle him on a quiet side street. Telling him he was amazing in front of the police. - _

Sherlock set the cup down. He pressed the heels of his hands against his eyelids, leaning against the couch. He could feel himself trembling again.

Moriarty stared at the anguished figure beside him, a grin tugging slightly at the side of his mouth. - _Gorgeous. Positively fantastic._ - He set his own cup down beside Sherlock's.

"Sherly?" He said, gently placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

He flinched at the contact. "I don't like that name!" He shouted, moving his hands from his eyes to roughly grip the fabric of his trousers.

"Alright, Sherl-Sherlock," Moriarty said. "It's okay. We – it was just a pet name. Let's talk about something more pleasant, eh? Happier times?"

Sherlock took a deep breath, trying to relax. He stared at his hands. "You'll have to do the talking, I'm afraid. I still don't remember much." He stood and walked to the fireplace, coals glowing, throwing golden highlights into his dark curls. There were pictures of him and Jimmy on the mantlepiece. He and Jimmy, smiling at the cameraman; another, looking into each others eyes; the largest framed photograph showed them holding hands under the boughs of a huge oak, blurry figures behind them on a bright day. Their wedding day, certainly.

There were others as well, newer photographs of Sherlock on the street. They seemed to be taken surreptitiously, some slightly out of focus. In one, he saw a man standing a few feet behind him, staring away into the distance. Blond and muscular, several inches shorter than he, his face grim. - _John Watson. Calling him Spock, telling him he was just "worked up." He never took me seriously._ - Fear grasped him suddenly, and he pushed it away with effort.

Sherlock placed a hand on the mantlepiece and turned to Moriarty, nodding at him to continue.

"After I found you again, we were together, stealing moments whenever we could, until you moved out. We moved in together – not here, at first. When I turned 21, I collected the money from the trust fund the school had set up. I withdrew it all in one lump sum, before my parents could figure out how to get to it," he said, his voice sharp with controlled anger.

"Why did they do that? The trust fund, I mean," Sherlock asked.

"Well … long story short, they experimented on me. With my parent's consent, of course, in exchange for a hefty payout. It's not something I'd really like to talk about now, if it's all the same to you."

Sherlock nodded.

"I bought this little place for us," Moriarty continued. "You thought it was cosy. I thought it needed work," he chuckled. "So we set up our home, and lived here quite happily for almost ten years." He paused. "I wish you could remember." Moriarty shook his head briefly. "You will," he said, almost to himself, "in time."

"And then?" Sherlock pressed.

"Then Mycroft found you. I honestly thought he'd forgotten about us. We got careless. We were in a shop in London one day … I swear we weren't apart more than two minutes, but when I looked, you were already outside, being pushed into a black car. I didn't see you again for two years." His eyes filled, and he swiped at them angrily. "I couldn't do anything. It was – it was. Well." Moriarty cleared his throat. "I did promise you a pleasant topic, didn't I?"

He held out his hand, and Sherlock returned to the sofa, clasping hands with him as he sat. "When I found you again six months ago, after all that time … it was amazing. The best day of my life. Well, the second best," he said, smiling warmly and gesturing to the mantelpiece. "So I-"

"How did they keep me there, against my will?" Sherlock interrupted quickly, his thoughts racing. "Why didn't I try to escape them, get back to you? It doesn't make sense. None of this. My memories are all … jumbled," he trailed off.

"Well they would be," Moriarty told him. "You were drugged, conditioned to believe that had always been your life. That I never existed."

"But how?" Sherlock asked, exasperated. "I remember the flat, John Watson, the crimes – murders, mostly – yes? But how did they drug me?"

"Sherlock, let me answer that with a question. How many times did John make your tea?"

"Oh." Sherlock slumped back against the cushions. "Every damned day. Every day, he made tea for me, and I was none the wiser. John Watson was my doctor. And my captor, as well …_"_

Moriarty bit the side of his lip, trying to appear regretful. - _Don't laugh don't laugh don't laugh - _

"He was, Sherlock. **Was. **Never again." He leaned into Sherlock, resting his head on the taller man's shoulder. "I'll never let you go."

* * *

_**AN:** Thanks for reading! More to come this weekend. Thank you for the reviews, follows, and favorites!_

**DFTBA**


	18. Sell a Big Lie

**Sell a Big Lie**

* * *

October 21, 2012

John sat in his chair in 221B still in his pyjamas in the early afternoon, deep in thought. He'd given up trying to work at the clinic. His mind was too frazzled for him to function properly now that he knew Sherlock was somewhere just out of reach – even Mycroft's.

John had no contact with him in the days following their discussion at the Club. He knew Mycroft wasn't one for chit-chat, but he believed the man when he said he'd get in touch with him if he learned anything.

John startled as his mobile phone pinged. New text. John read it, eyes widening as he did.

_I know about the crypt. Talk to me. - GL_

John groaned as he typed out his reply. He needed time to prepare before facing Lestrade.

_Regent's Park. 1 hour. - JW_

In the end, their discussion went better than John expected. He was surprised that all Lestrade had to go on was the new lock on the crypt, nothing more. He decided to tell Greg everything anyway, knowing Mycroft wouldn't be pleased, but certain he could help. Lestrade was understandably upset they'd kept him in the dark.

"Look, Greg, I wanted to tell you," John said. "But Mycroft is absolutely certain someone is watching you at the Yard, and well ... how often is he wrong?"

Lestrade was a bit gobsmacked by John's admission, but acknowledged that it would be difficult for him to use his resources with someone watching him at work. Nonetheless, he insisted he could keep the information under wraps, and help them find Moriarty's employee.

John agreed to set up a meeting between the three of them in the next few days before Lestrade left. John remained on the park bench. He had no idea how to tell Mycroft what had transpired, but he'd figure something out.

His mobile pinged again as he finally headed from the park back to 221B. He rolled his eyes as he read the text. So much for deciding how to tell Mycroft.

_Do you really think that was wise, John? - MH_

John paused on the path, tapping out a brief message.

_I do. - JW_

Mycroft texted back immediately. No, John corrected himself, it's probably Anthea doing the typing.

_When shall we meet with the Detective Inspector, then? - MH_

John sighed. Why was Mycroft leaving him to decide? Oh, of course. No legwork for Mycroft. He shook his head and sent another message.

_Two days, I suppose? 11AM at Speedy's? - JW_

He hoped it would be enough time for one of them to find something – anything – to lead them to Sherlock.

_See you then. - MH_

* * *

Jim and Sherlock settled into a comfortable routine as the days passed, often in one another's arms. They walked or sat in the garden watching Winter approach, or before the hearth reading in companionable silence. Sherlock was often online, researching his own past.

Most of the information he found concerned his work for Scotland Yard and the accolades he'd received for it. The stories from the previous Summer were less flattering. There was apparently someone called Richard Brook, and the story went that Sherlock himself had hired the man to make himself appear to be a master detective. The papers then reported that he was indeed a fake, and had killed himself by jumping off a roof. SUICIDE OF FAKE GENIUS, The Sun claimed.

A few weeks later, in mid-July, there was a reversal of the narrative. The stories now being published asserted that he was a master detective after all, and Scotland Yard had evidence to back it up. TRAGEDY OF GENIUS DETECTIVE'S LAST HOURS, one headline shouted. HOLMES' DEATH SHOCKER, ENGLAND'S LOSS.

That story in particular confused him. Jimmy assured him it was all nonsense, information most likely fed to the media by his brother. "That was the day I rescued you, Sherlock. I wish you remembered that," Jim said. "Mycroft had to come up with a story to cover up your disappearance, didn't he? I don't doubt that he's still looking for you," he said, watching as Sherlock's posture stiffened. "Don't worry, doll face, he won't find you. But that's why you have to stay here a while longer, out of sight. He'll soon be distracted by his all-important 'matters of National security,' and he'll give up on finding you. Mycroft knows you want to be with me."

Moriarty turned toward Sherlock, dark brown eyes staring into his blue-grey ones. "You do feel safe here, don't you love?" He pushed a stray curl from Sherlock's brow, watching as it bounced back to its original position.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded slowly. "With you, I feel safe."

Moriarty hummed approvingly, pushing his hand into Sherlock's hair to capture him in a kiss. "Do you need anything from the shops?" Jim asked, pulling himself from their embrace. "I want to get my errands done early today. I'd like to spend the afternoon with you. It's supposed to be a bright, lovely day. Shall we have our lunch in the garden, cold be damned?"

Sherlock grinned at him. "Cold be damned."

"Right," Moriarty smiled back. "I'll get ready then. You just stay here and relax." He traced his finger along Sherlock's side, loving the feel of him twitching from the contact as his finger reached his hipbone.

"That tickles," Sherlock rumbled contentedly.

"Why do you think I do it?" Moriarty smiled, moving from their bed to the bathroom.

* * *

**AN:** _More to come soon. I have a really nasty cold, but I think the medicine is inspiring me. In a weird way. Hopefully this chapter makes sense._

DFTBA!


	19. Found and Lost

**Aylesbury Vale**

_Found and Lost_

* * *

_10.00, October 23, 2012_

Sherlock smiled as he prepared tea. A few minutes later, Jimmy came down the stairs, his hair a mess, eyes still squinting from sleep though it was already late morning. He was wearing a dressing gown and nothing else, Sherlock noted.

"Tea's ready, Jimmy," Sherlock called out. "Are you awake?"

Moriarty sighed and rubbed at his face. "Mmm … I suppose so," he answered, staring into Sherlock's eyes as he made his way into the kitchen.

"By the by, you don't have to call me Jimmy. Just a pet name. You can call me whatever you like, of course, but you used to call me Jim. Most of the time. You know, when you weren't calling me "Oh God!" when we were intimate, back then." He smiled, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's back where he stood at the counter.

"This morning wasn't bad either. Are you remembering more, or are you just naturally a BEAST in bed, hmm?" He breathed in Sherlock's scent, tickling his neck as he slowly brushed his nose over him. "You smell wonderful," he murmured. "You smell like … mine."

"Well, Jim, that's because I am yours. All yours."

"You really are back, aren't you? This feels so good, so much like before. I can hardly stand it, being so close to you right now. Let's let the tea go cold, hmm?"

"Now?"

"Right now, right here," Moriarty purred, leaning in closer, then turned Sherlock to face him, backing him up to the kitchen table.

"I believe this is the last available surface where we haven't yet had sex. Well, the top of the refrigerator, too, but I don't think there's room enough for us up there." He giggled slightly as Sherlock sat on the table, leaning back, his eyes already half closed in anticipation.

"Oh!" Jim said, reaching behind him to open a drawer and withdrew a tube of lubricant. "Almost forgot."

He rubbed a generous amount over Sherlock's rising cock. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at him. "I want to feel you inside me this time, Sherlock. You don't mind, do you?"

Sherlock's deep chuckle confirmed what Moriarty already knew. Sherlock pushed himself further back, to the center of the table. He removed his trousers and pants, letting them fall to the kitchen floor. Moriarty followed him onto the table, settling himself on Sherlock's hips.

"Ready?"

Sherlock briefly glanced down between them. The sensations rolling through him were stronger than he could have imagined, his heart beating in time to his throbbing cock.

"I'd say so," he breathed, watching as Moriarty lowered, slowly impaling himself, filling himself with Sherlock. He settled for a moment, not moving.

Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth opened slightly as he adjusted to the sensations rushing through him. He breathed out a near-silent groan, very slowly, before looking up at Jim. "This is … this is ..."

"Isn't it?" Jim said playfully.

Sherlock tried to speak again, but Jim started moving his hips, swiveling and thrusting against him roughly.

_- Shame there isn't time to do this properly._ - Jim rode Sherlock rapidly into bliss, leaning down to capture his mouth and tongue, his back arched and sweating.

Sherlock was beyond thought, beyond breathing as he thrust upwards, reaching his arms over his head to grab the table's edge. "Wait, wait! I can't-" Sherlock jerked, his whole body quivering as he came into Jim.

Moriarty soon followed, covering Sherlock's stomach. He moved himself off, then lay down fully on top of Sherlock, panting and grinning. "What did I say," he breathed. "A stallion. My stallion."

Sherlock hummed his agreement, savoring the twitches and electricity still flowing through him as they lay together. Moriarty climbed off the table, still between Sherlock's knees, and held out his hand. Sherlock released the table and took Moriarty's hand, smiling weakly. "I'm surprised the table survived," he whispered into Jim's ear.

"I made sure to buy sturdy furniture," Moriarty quipped, leading Sherlock towards the bedroom. They moved up the stairs at a leisurely pace, entering the bathroom together. Sherlock started the shower while Jim retrieved towels for them. He stepped in after Sherlock, moving into his waiting arms for a close embrace as the water poured down on them.

"Mmm," Moriarty sighed.

"Indeed," Sherlock replied, rubbing his chin in the shorter man's wet hair before kissing the top of his head.

"How do you do it?" Sherlock asked as Jim moved away to scrub himself with soap.

"Do what, dear?" He followed Sherlock's look down at himself, hard and ready once again.

"Make me feel this way," Sherlock answered.

"A magician never gives away his secrets," Moriarty grinned lopsidedly. He finished rinsing himself off and stepped out of the shower. "So, need anything? I'm off to do the shopping," he said, grabbing a towel.

"Hey! I thought we were having 'a moment,' as you call it." A hint of disappointment lingered over his features as Jim dried himself off.

"We were! And I'd like lots more. So, best to get my errands out of the way, don't you think? You just have a nice, long shower, and I'll be back in no time." He favored Sherlock with The Look That Always Worked, and was rewarded with a grin from Sherlock.

"Don't be long," Sherlock called after Jim as he disappeared into the bedroom to get dressed.

Sherlock stood under the warm water as he heard Jimmy walking downstairs. - _I suppose I'll just have to take care of this myself. -_ He brushed a finger over his cock, shuddering at the sensation. - _A long shower is definitely in order. - _

* * *

_10.45_

Kitty sat in her tiny high-ceilinged flat, waiting. She knew the next call would be from her brother, and didn't dare leave the house. He'd had a package delivered to her the day before, and a note instructing her to wait for his call. In the package she found an earpiece and a small black box that looked a bit like a microphone, with tiny holes on either side.

The phone rang and she twitched at the sound. She answered after three rings. "Yes?"

"So here's the plan. I'm going to release your little friend back into the wild. And yes, he's alive and … basically well. If you follow my instructions exactly, he'll be out and about solving his little cases in no time. If not-"

"Of course I will," Kitty blurted out. "And I'm not doing it for him, I'm doing it for you."

"Ahh, my dear, loving sister. I knew I could count on you - but don't think you've fooled me. You're doing this for him. And that's okay by me, as long as you do it. So you know the plan?" Moriarty asked.

"Yes. You're going to direct me to the phone. And then tell me what to say … " Kitty trailed off, anxiety clear in her voice. "How do you know they won't recognize my voice?"

"Not to worry, little Kitty. Take the little device I included in your package. You'll just switch it on and cover the mouthpiece of the phone. He won't be able to tell it's you. Remember, you have to be quick so they won't trace the call."

"I remember," she said, slight irritation showing. _She's really scared, _Moriarty thought. _Whatever. As long as she doesn't fuck it up._

"Are you ready? Twenty minutes, and I'll call you back. **Exactly** twenty minutes," he said, and ended the call. He quickly disassembled his mobile phone and tossed it into the bin.

Jim reached into the back of the kitchen drawer and clicked the button, giving Sherlock his daily dose. He left it on longer than usual, imagining Sherlock bringing himself off. He felt his arousal tugging at his impeccably pressed trousers, and looked down at the growing bulge. "Stop it," he said conversationally. He pressed the button again, stopping the flow of the aerosolized drug. He closed the drawer and headed out. "Game on!" He squeaked, feeling another sort of excitement rising in him.

Moriarty stepped outside, smiling as he got into the small, unremarkable car. He winced as the door creaked shut. "Piece of shit," he grumbled, still smiling. He knew Sebs was waiting for him, and once he'd put some distance between himself and the little villages and their nosy old ladies, he'd be rid of the _ordinary_ vehicle for good.

* * *

_10.55_

Lestrade sat at the corner table at Speedy's, his attention focused on the people walking past the window as he waited for Mycroft and John. It was too much to hope that he'd recognize someone from the office walking by, but he did it anyway.

He saw Mycroft and John approach the door, and sat back to glare at his espresso for a moment. He could play it cool, alright, and he was certain no one suspected he knew Sherlock was alive, but it wasn't helping him find Moriarty's accomplice. He'd gotten no further in finding either Sherlock or the traitor among his ranks. He hoped one of them would have better news, but the looks on their faces suggested otherwise.

John slumped into the chair next to him, looking as exhausted as Lestrade felt. Mycroft took the chair opposite them, glancing once at the door to confirm his operative was outside before turning to Lestrade.

"I take it you've been unable to locate anyone of interest to us in this matter?" Mycroft, too, had dark circles under his eyes.

"Nothing," Lestrade agreed sadly. "Can't seem to catch a break in this whole bloody mess, can we?"

John didn't look at Lestrade as he stood up abruptly and went to the counter to order.

"Poor bastard," Lestrade mumbled, watching John's retreating figure.

"Yes, well." Mycroft pulled at his suit jacket distractedly. Lestrade had noticed he did that more often when he was frustrated. "Your mole is Sergeant Bernadette Kingston," Mycroft announced.

"What?" Lestrade's face went white. "She's a data entry clerk downstairs. How could she … ?"

"She has access to all of the Yard's records as part of her duties, does she not?" Mycroft said mildly. "And as of late, she's been doing a lot of research on you. And Sherlock. Of course she's found nothing valuable to her employer, but it caught my attention nonetheless."

"So," Lestrade said, mulling over the new information, "what do we do?"

John returned with a coffee for himself and tea for Mycroft. "We wait," he replied unhappily, looking at Mycroft.

"Wait for what?" Lestrade didn't know what to do next, but he hadn't imagined they'd do nothing.

"Mycroft thinks she knows – or rather, that Moriarty knows – that we're on to her."

"So we wait … why?" Lestrade said. "Doesn't that mean we should detain her before she scarpers?"

"Moriarty is too clever to have her do something so obvious." Mycroft let his meaning sink in.

"He put her up to it," Lestrade concluded. "He wanted us to find her."

"That's the theory," John growled, taking a long drink of his cappuccino.

"Not a theory," Mycroft corrected gently. "There's no reason for her to do this on her own. Moriarty is about to make his next move. So. We watch, and we wait."

Lestrade sighed and looked toward John. He understood now why he looked even more defeated than usual. They'd been waiting too damned long already, yet Mycroft's deductions were almost certainly correct.

"Shit," he said softly. The three men sat in silence after that.

* * *

_11.05_

Kitty answered her mobile on the first ring. "Yes," she said, sounding a little out of breath.

"Hang up and switch on the earpiece." Moriarty said, hanging up the public phone and returning to the little blue car. He put the wireless receiver into his ear, settled into his seat and started the car.

"All set?" He asked her, pulling away from the public house and onto the narrow road.

"Of course," Kitty replied.

"Good!" Jim was jovial again. "I'll talk you through it as you go. First, I need you to walk outside and turn left."

Kitty followed Moriarty's instructions, knowing he was directing her away from government cameras. After ten minutes of walking, Jim chirped into Kitty's ear.

"Here we are! Use that one."

Kitty hesitated, looking at all the people walking by.

"Yes, I'm sure," Jim answered her unasked question. "Go on."

She entered the booth and shut the door before fitting the device to the mouthpiece of the phone. She switched it on, shaking slightly before bringing the phone to her ear.

"Test it," Moriarty ordered.

"Hello?" She said to the dial tone, relieved that the voice she heard sounded nothing like her own.

"Good. Here's the number. Remember what I told you, and repeat exactly what I say. You'll do fine," he said reassuringly.

* * *

_11.17_

Just as they were walking out of the cafe, saying their goodbyes, Lestrade's mobile rang. He answered it, distractedly waving to Mycroft as his usual black town car rolled up.

"WHO IS THIS!" He roared into the phone. Mycroft and John both turned back to Lestrade, whose face was suddenly far too red.

"Are you fucking joking? Where? Aylesbury Vale is a big area. Why should I believe you?"

Lestrade moved the phone from his ear to stare at it in disbelief. There was a number. He pressed redial immediately.

"What's going on?" John was at his side now, head tilted slightly. Worry and anticipation were obvious by his body language.

Mycroft had abandoned the car, instructing the driver to wait. He, too, stared intently at Lestrade, impatiently awaiting an answer from the detective.

After a dozen rings, someone answered. "Hey, mate, I think you have the wrong number. You've called a public box."

"Where?" Lestrade asked, waving away John's question for the moment.

"Ta." Lestrade ended the call, looking up at the men staring at him expectantly.

"I just got a call from a public call box about two miles from here from someone using a voice distortion device. Said Sherlock's alive, and somewhere in Aylesbury Vale." His hands were sweating, and he felt like he was about to throw up."

"What? Where?" John's throat constricted, his voice coming out in a panicked gasp.

Lestrade looked to Mycroft. "They said you'd be able to find him. Told me to say hello to you and John. That was all."

Mycroft sighed heavily, his eyes pinched with worry. "It appears, then, that Moriarty has made his move," Mycroft replied, reaching for his own mobile phone, pressing speed dial. "Anthea. Have every hamlet and home in Aylesbury Vale checked for anything unusual. I've been informed Sherlock is there. Then have all CCTV footage checked within a five-mile radius of 221B Baker Street for anyone leaving a call box. NOW. "

John's vision was going white around the edges from lack of oxygen, but he could see the determination and fear in Mycroft's eyes. He wasn't trying to hide it, or if he was, he was failing miserably.

"Gentlemen, please come with me. We have work to do." He gestured to his car. - _I'll find you, brother. I can do this._ -

* * *

_11.25_

Lestrade phoned the local constabulary, hoping for a lead as the car made its way to Aylesbury Vale.

"Nothing much happening around here," the constable, Paul Harrington, replied to his question. "Well, there is the couple that moved into a house far away from Aylesbury proper. Figured it was just because they were a couple of queers wanting to be left alone. Had a fair amount of restoration done to the house – kept nearly fifteen men employed for a couple of weeks there. Anything's good for the economy these days, you know-"

"Okay, okay," Lestrade cut him off. "Where's the house? Have you got an address?"

Lestrade scribbled on a small pad of paper, his hand shaking so badly the words were almost illegible. "Thanks very much. No, not yet. I'll call you back." He set down the phone. "This has to be it," he told John and Mycroft, holding up the paper. "Small house, way away from any villages or towns. Recently purchased, even more recently renovated." He read the address he'd scribbled out, and Mycroft instructed his driver to go even faster than he already was.

Mycroft looked up the address on his phone, and gave the driver specific directions to reach the house. "I'm impressed, Lestrade," he said, putting his mobile to his ear. "Anthea. I have the address. Send a team, but have them wait for me." He gave her the information swiftly, then rang off, and leaned back in his seat. He couldn't hide his anticipation and worry radiating from his stiff posture. "We should arrive in twenty minutes."

John sat silently as he watched the men work. He kept reminding himself to breathe, to focus on the task. - _I'm a soldier. I can do this. -_

Lestrade saw John's laboured breathing and placed his hand on his shoulder, offering silent support as they sped down the motorway.

* * *

_11.45_

Sherlock was splayed out over the sofa in the sitting room, reading a book as he waited for Jimmy to return. After his shower, he'd done the best he could with his lengthening curls, finally giving up when he decided his hair was moderately presentable. Dressed in the dark blue suit Jim favored, he found himself fiddling with his tiepin distractedly. He noticed the bulge in his trousers yet again. "You'll just have to wait for Jimmy," he said to his crotch. He sighed, mildly frustrated, and tried to go back to reading.

There wasn't much traffic passing by their home, so when he heard a car – _no, SUV_ – make its way down the road he was instantly on guard, dropping the book onto the sofa as he made his way to the kitchen window. There was no sign of it. He was certain it was parked in front of the house. His anxiety grew tenfold as he saw another SUV – _black_ – driving towards the house. Then another. And another, all stopping just out of view. - _They're waiting for someone else._ -

Sherlock stood stiffly, rooted to his spot by the window, wide eyed, his fists clenching and unclenching as his fear grew. There was nowhere to run. He couldn't make it over the grassy fields unnoticed.

His heart was thumping in his chest, sweat breaking out under his suit when he saw the black town car at the crest of the hill.

"Mycroft," he whispered, turning from the window to run up the stairs to the bedroom. He knew there was no point, but terror had overtaken him. He closed and locked the door to the stairs, then the bedroom before sprinting to the bathroom. He locked that door as well, and crouched in the furthest corner. - _Nowhere to run. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to run. _-

* * *

_11.50_

Mycroft insisted that the local police were not to be involved. "My men are far more adept. We don't need their ... help." He spat out the word disdainfully.

Lestrade knew he was right, though he'd prefer to have them as backup. As they rounded the curve over the last hill, he could see why Mycroft felt the locals weren't necessary. There were four SUVs parked behind the tall hedgerows in front of the house, likely more than a few of Mycroft's agents in each. He took a deep breath, preparing himself. - _I'm a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. I can do this. -_

They pulled up, and Mycroft sprang from the car first, demanding the current status of the house and its occupants.

"No one in or out, sir," the team leader replied. "One of the men thought he spotted a bit of movement downstairs, but he was the only one who saw it, sir."

Mycroft pressed his lips together, knowing they were likely about to encounter a hostage situation. "I believe you know what to expect, Marsden," Mycroft said. The man nodded grimly. "Then move out. **Carefully**. Keep me apprised of your movements at all times."

The team leader gestured for one of his men to come forward. He stepped over nervously to Mycroft's imposing form. "You're to stay here to assist Mister Holmes. Keep your radio on."

With that, Agent Marsden trotted over to the assembled team and quietly gave them their orders. Six were to station themselves at the back of the house, six in front. He posted his snipers to cover every window. He gestured, and three more followed him, making their way up the drive. Mister Holmes had told him there was no need for stealth. They'd be expected. He gripped his rifle tightly as he led his men to the front door, waving them back to relative safety against the wall. "Everyone in position? Count off," he said into his radio. Everyone reported ready.

"I'm going in," John said suddenly.

"Then I'm going with you," Lestrade replied, not taking his eyes off the house.

"No one is going anywhere until my people have assessed the situation. Now is not the time to go bursting in and risk getting yourself killed. Possibly in front of Sherlock."

John ran a hand through his short hair, shaky and breathing hard. "I fucking **hate** you, Mycroft. Why do you have to be so goddamned reasonable all the time?"

Mycroft raised his eyebrows at John, but didn't reply.

"Fine!" John huffed out. "We wait. **Again**."

"Alright, here we go," Marsden said into his two-way radio. "Three, two, one." He moved forward quickly, bashing in the lock with the butt of his rifle. The door slammed against the wall as the men poured in, guns at the ready. They quickly searched downstairs, finding nothing. "This floor's clear," Marsden reported. "There's a door, probably leads upstairs. It's locked. Taking care of that now."

They broke the door down and cautiously looked up the stairs. "No one on the stairs. Just another door at the top." He motioned for three of his men to follow him up the stairs. "Locked." He smashed the handle, and the door swing open as he turned back against the wall. Not a sound came from the room, and he finally peered around the corner to look in.

It appeared to be a normal bedroom. The bed was unmade, and embers glowed in the fireplace. He pointed, and two men rushed into the room, guns at the ready. They methodically checked every corner of the room, under the bed and inside the armoire. Still nothing.

"Bedroom's clear," Marsden said. He heard a noise from the door leading to the bathroom. He put his hand up, silencing the other men. "Bathroom." He whispered the word into his radio, cautiously stepping towards the door. He heard the noise again, more clearly this time. It sounded like the whine of a wounded animal. He prepared to knock open the door, recognizing the noises for what they were – a human, in extreme distress. Gun in one hand, he raised the other for a silent count of three. The men took cover as he kicked the door in, swiftly moving to the side.

The sounds were loud, now, as Marsden prepared for a last-stand hostage situation. He moved to glance through the doorway. In the corner sat a young man, the source of the pitiful whimpering. He was curled in on himself, arms thrown around his head as he trembled violently. Marsden handed his gun off to the man behind him before cautiously taking a step into the bathroom. "Sherlock Holmes?" He said quietly. The man shook his head and began rocking slightly. "Mister Holmes," Marsden tried again, "I'm sorry we frightened you, but we're here to help. Your brother is just downstairs. He'll be up any moment."

Sherlock jerked his head up, his eyes bloodshot, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No. No. No." He repeated the word over and over. It was all he could say, all he could think.

* * *

**AN:** _More to come soon. Thank you everyone for reading, especially for the reviews and favorites, and Happy New Year!_

DFTBA


	20. Negotiation's Over

**Negotiation's over**

_Mr. Holmes is my brother._

* * *

Agent Marsden was at a loss. The man crouching across the room didn't look injured or otherwise harmed. He was tidy and clean, dressed in a smart blue suit, his hair neatly coiffed. He'd been expecting – well, expecting someone who looked a bit more like they'd been held against their will. The man was absolutely terrified, to be sure. Terrified of them. 'Stockholm Syndrome?' he wondered, taking another hesitant step into the room.

"Mister Holmes, we-"

"'Mister Holmes' is my BROTHER!" The young man shouted, suddenly piercing him with an icy glare, irises a shocking green contrast to the whites of his eyes, now shot through with red.

"I'm fine. I'm happy here. Tell him to GO AWAY!" Sherlock shouted at him. He could hear a half-dozen or more men swarming about the house now. He hoped Jimmy was still at the shops and wouldn't be spotted coming back home.

Marsden crouched in place. "Sherlock," He said quietly. "Your brother, your friends have been worried about you for months. Why don't you just come out of the bathroom so we can talk?"

Sherlock squinted up at the man briefly. - _Muscular, late-40s, short haircut, calm demeanor _-

"Exactly how long after you left the military before you couldn't bear it, hmm? Before standing **behind** the yellow tape, performing your little hostage negotiations wasn't enough? One year? You couldn't stand watching the others bashing in doors, having all the fun. Could you, Marsden?" Sherlock spat his rapid-fire deductions at him, taking a short breath before continuing. "And your wife hasn't a clue. She thinks you're still playing it safe for the sake of your family. Tell me, how long do you think she'll believe your injuries are from training exercises? She's not smart, but she's nowhere near as stupid as you seem to think."

Before the agent could recover, a voice came over the two-way. It was one of Marsden's younger agents, gasping painfully. He could tell the man was running as he spoke. "Sir ... in the basement ... thought it was ... a generator ... at first ..."

"Everybody out, NOW!" Marsden shouted into the radio. He sprang to his feet and in one swift movement grabbed Sherlock by the arm, yanking him through the door. He nodded sharply at the agent closest to the bathroom, who took Sherlock's other arm as they rushed him down the stairs.

"Get. OFF. Me!" Sherlock twisted in their grasp, trying to kick them as he was yanked roughly toward the front door. "Please!" He shouted, the terror back in his voice.

Marsden spared a glance at Sherlock as they crossed the threshold out of the house. "Sorry, son. Negotiation's over."

Sherlock found himself running to keep from being dragged down the cobblestone drive as they plowed ahead, following the others to the road.

"But there's – it's nothing," Sherlock panted, trying to look back at the house – _my home_ - but the two agents were stronger than he, and equally motivated by adrenalin. They'd put about 75 feet between themselves and the house before Marsden felt the peculiar whoosh of air flowing back, and his ears popped painfully milliseconds before the explosion knocked them to the ground.

Marsden threw himself over Sherlock, knowing his Kevlar would protect him from at least some of the debris raining over them as the ground shook from the blast. After the worst seemed to be over, Sherlock tried to push the agent off him, but the man shoved him back down. "Basement!" He shouted into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock was puzzled for the barest moment before his mind caught up. _- Basement ... Heater. Boiler. Gas! -_ A second later, there was another explosion, hotter and more powerful than the first. A geyser of fire shot up from the ruined house as more flaming rubble was ejected into the air. His forehead was slammed into the cobblestones from the force of the shockwave.

Sherlock sensed something hot on his right forearm before the object was roughly brushed off. Then he felt a sharp pain in his left thigh. He screamed, barely able to hear himself over the roaring fire and the ringing in his ears. His instincts shouted at him to run, but he was firmly held to the ground by the weight of the agent on top of him. Sherlock lifted his head as much as he could, his vision blurring. He felt blood running from his forehead into his eyes, down his face to join the rivulets streaming from his nose. He lowered his head again, felt a growing puddle under his chin.

Marsden finally rolled away from him, hauling himself to his feet to check Sherlock and Agent Isabel Freitas for injuries. Both were covered in small cuts, burns, and dust. Freitas had been spared the worst of it by the Kevlar, but as she raised herself to her knees, he saw the bottom of her boot had been split by the jagged piece of metal sticking out of her foot. - _She'll live. -_ He turned his attention to Sherlock, quickly realizing his leg had been pierced by the piece of rebar jutting out of his thigh.

"Two down!" He shouted into his radio, unsure if it still worked. His agents streamed towards them. Wary of the potential for another explosion, they pulled Sherlock and Freitas up and ran, dragging them to the end of the lane and behind one of the SUVs they were using as cover.

Sherlock blinked, trying to restore his vision, catching a glimpse of the vehicles as he was carefully lowered to the road on his stomach, his arms at his sides. A neck brace appeared from somewhere and was quickly wrapped around his head and neck. He wondered why he wasn't on his back. - _Something ... something hit my leg._ - He didn't feel any pain and knew that was a bad sign.

He saw an agent's boots, then knees come into view as the man crouched in front of him –_ medic. -_ Sherlock spoke as the man checked him over for more injuries. "Little damage to the vehicles ... reinforced," He said. "Windows cracked, not broken. Bulletproof glass. Car is undamaged."

The medic looked at him, bemused. "Yeah." He placed a stethoscope over several spots on Sherlock's back, checking his breathing, then held his left wrist to count his pulse. The man pulled out a small torch, then lay on the ground to get a better view of Sherlock's face. He shined the torch in one eye, then the other. Sherlock winced at the intrusion of light, wishing he could see more than a few feet around him. Sirens howled in the distance over the sound of the fire. The sky had turned dark, the smoke obscuring what had been a sunny day.

In the back of his mind, he heard the car door being slammed shut, several sets of footsteps – _three, male_ – running towards him. "My-my leg. Is it still there?" He asked suddenly.

"Oh, your leg's still there, mate. It's just got an uninvited guest," he said, moving back to a crouching position. "But don't worry, we'll evict it soon enough. Just lie still. The ambulance is almost here." The man tapped Sherlock's left hand. "Make a fist for me? Good. Now the other one – just wiggle your fingers if it hurts too much. You've got a pretty decent burn on your arm. Well done. Once the ambulance gets here with a backboard, we'll move you onto your side. You're gonna be okay."

"Mmph," Sherlock replied groggily.

"Hey there," the man tapped his left hand again. "You still with me?"

"Yes," Sherlock groaned, wishing he weren't. The medic was entirely too cheerful. "I'm sleepy."

"I don't doubt it, mate. You've had a busy day. The ambulance is here, just stay awake for now."

Sherlock couldn't see the ambulance or fire trucks he knew had arrived, but he could feel the hum of powerful motors and see the flashing lights reflected on the road.

The medic stood quickly. His boots were joined by three sets of men's shoes.

"You can tend to your own now – I'm a doctor. I'll watch over him while they set up." The voice was familiar, but Sherlock couldn't quite place it. He focused on the shoes instead.

One set, dark brown, well-polished, very expensive. Another, black business shoes, well worn. The last were light brown, unremarkable, sturdy.

He heard the paramedics approach him, rolling a trolley between them. They placed a board on the ground and slowly rolled him onto his right side. He felt a piece of foam being set under his neck before they lashed him securely onto the board. His stomach lurched as they lifted him onto the trolley. He closed his eyes as his vitals were checked again and an oxygen mask was placed over his mouth and nose.

Sherlock's eyes slowly opened. He observed three men standing close by.

Mycroft. - _Of course. I should have recognized his shoes. Wanker. -_

His eyes flickered over the other two men. His vision was blurring again as he felt darkness beckoning.

The man with greying hair looked at him anxiously. - _Lestrade. -_

Sherlock squinted up at the man who was suddenly at his side, clutching his hand in a desperate grip.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, can you hear me?"

"John Watson," he said quietly as his eyes slid shut.

* * *

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**AN: **_The gang's finally back together ... sort of. I hope to have another chapter up Sunday, depending on how this cold decides to treat me. _

_As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, following, and **especially** favorite-ing this story. I really appreciate it. I had no idea it would end up so long when I started, especially since it's barely half-over, if that!_

_On a totally unrelated note: Happy Birthday to me! Yep, it's my birthday today. Yay!_

_- j -_

**DFTBA**


	21. No More Waiting

**No More Waiting**

_Why can't you just leave us alone?_

* * *

John watched anxiously as Sherlock was quickly trundled into the ambulance. He hopped inside before the paramedics could protest. Mycroft appeared at the doors at the back of the ambulance. John gave him a pleading look, but Mycroft could see the steel behind it.

"No more waiting," he said firmly.

"Of course, John," he answered, brow furrowed as he stared at his brother with concern. "He needs you."

Just then John heard the sound of a helicopter in the distance. "Air ambulance?"

"Yes. He's being taken directly to Royal London Hospital. My surgeons are already waiting." Mycroft pursed his lips, any semblance of his cold exterior gone. "We'll meet you there." He turned away quickly, heading for his car.

John breathed a sigh of relief as the doors were closed. Naturally, Mycroft had planned for this. He wondered again why Sherlock disliked his brother so much – he was probably the best ally one could hope for, especially now.

The ambulance moved up the road to the top of a nearby hill, where the paramedics opened the door and quickly moved the trolley out. They headed towards the noisy air ambulance, shielding their eyes from the wind whipped up by the blades. John followed quickly, noticing there was a spare seat between the doctor and the EMT already waiting inside. _- Mycroft really did think of everything. _- He clambered in after Sherlock, the doctor already checking his vitals once again as the EMT set up an IV.

The helicopter took off. John glanced out the front window as they turned toward London, surveying the disaster scene that had nearly taken Sherlock's life – for real, this time.

John looked back at Sherlock, his face covered with blood. The bandages used to stabilise his leg were soaked through with it.

"One unit, now," the emergency doctor told the EMT, who grabbed a bag of blood and attached it to the IV. The man then began cleaning the blood from Sherlock's face to see where he'd been injured. A large gash just above his hairline was revealed underneath, and he swiftly covered it with a thick bandage. He then applied a layer of burn cream before Sherlock's arm was also bandaged securely.

John impulsively grabbed Sherlock's hand, careful to stay out of the way. He stirred slightly then, his eyes opening just a bit. John heard a slight groan from behind the oxygen mask, and gave the other doctor a worried look.

"You're going to be alright, Sherlock. Just lie still," John said, leaning forward so that Sherlock could see him, since he probably couldn't be heard over the sound of the helicopter.

Sherlock's eyes tracked to the right and met John's. He groaned again, and closed his eyes.

The doctor called for his EMT to sedate Sherlock and give him 2 milligrams of morphine. John knew he needed more, but they couldn't risk it since he would be in sugery soon under general anasthetic.

"How long?" John asked the doctor.

He checked his watch. "ETA is 18 minutes. Don't worry, Doctor Watson. He's starting to stabilise now, and his brother has the best surgeons in Europe standing by."

John didn't have the wherewithal to notice that the doctor knew his name. He just kept holding Sherlock's hand, knowing he couldn't feel it but needing to offer comfort all the same. In truth, he knew that he was the one who was comforted by the feel of Sherlock's hand in his.

The rest of the flight was a blur. John couldn't stop staring at the gory sight of the piece of rebar in his best friend's leg. His leg was still bleeding, staining the sheet under him. By the amount of blood, John knew it had missed the femoral artery. If it hadn't, he would have bled out already. John shivered slightly. The rebar had barely pierced through to the other side of Sherlock's leg. He hoped it wasn't slowed by going through his femur, praying the cobbled drive had stopped it instead. John was brought out of his thoughts as he felt the helicopter slow, preparing to land on the hospital's helipad. He gripped Sherlock's hand tighter, knowing they'd soon be separated when he was wheeled into surgery.

Before he knew it, the helicopter had landed and he let go of Sherlock's hand as the waiting doctors rushed him to the lift. John followed and was allowed to squeeze into the lift as it descended. As expected, he wasn't allowed to follow any further once they'd arrived at the floor where surgeons, nurses, and two anesthesiologists were waiting to prep Sherlock for surgery.

He stood stock still, feeling the shock catch up to him as he watched his friend disappear behind the double-doors. He felt a rush of cold, and his vision went white around the edges as he stumbled forward, barely catching himself from tumbling to the floor.

A nurse was at his side before he knew what was happening, leading him to a chair against the wall near the lift. The nurse placed an oxygen mask over his face. John tried to push it away half-heartedly, still dazed.

"It's just for a minute, Doctor Watson," the male nurse told him gently. "Can I get you something? Would you like a sedative, something to calm your nerves?"

John shook his head as the hallway came back into focus. The nurse, whose name tag read Nick Schmidt, clipped the monitor onto John's finger to check his O2 sats. He watched the number rise, then removed the mask from John's face.

"You sure I can't get you something? You'll need to move to the waiting room eventually, but you can stay here for a bit."

"Tea," John replied numbly.

* * *

By the time Mycroft and Lestrade arrived, he was sitting in the nearby waiting room, still clutching his empty cup, staring blankly at the wall.

"He's still alive," John murmured, moving to take a sip of tea before he realized he'd already drunk all of it.

"Yes," Mycroft said gently, moving to sit next to John, putting a hand on his shoulder. "The doctors tell me he's expected to survive."

Lestrade sat opposite them, observing John relax fractionally at Mycroft's touch. He couldn't believe this was the man Sherlock regarded with such disdain. He was acting nothing like the cold, unfeeling government official Sherlock had described so often. His eyes were pinched with worry, shoulders almost as stiff as John's.

The three of them waited and worried as the hours dragged on. About every 30 minutes, a surgical nurse came to inform them of their progress. Lestrade and John had no doubt it was Mycroft's doing – it certainly wasn't standard procedure.

John listened to the status updates but had trouble grasping them as the enormity of the day continued to catch up with him. _- Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. Sherlock is alive. -_

He heard words like "stabilised," "second degree burn," "bleeding under control," and finally what he'd been waiting for: "metal extracted successfully." John began to tune in again after that.

The surgical nurse entered the waiting room again, and this time, John rose to his feet. "The surgeons are stitching the muscles now. The metal bar missed his femur and femoral artery. Once they've done stitching the muscles and skin, he'll be moved to Recovery. You can see him as soon as he's awake."

"No," Mycroft said, standing and taking a step forward, ever-present umbrella hanging from his arm. "We'll see him as soon as he's moved." His voice brooked no argument.

The surgical nurse blanched. "I'll, um, I'll talk to the surgeons," she said, turning to leave.

"Do," Mycroft replied as the nurse retreated from the waiting room.

Lestrade stared at Mycroft with some amusement and not a little gratitude. _- There's the man Sherlock's always going on about. - _

Mycroft caught his stare, raising his eyebrow silently.

"You're … a good brother," Lestrade told him, unsure if he'd said the right thing to Mycroft, who'd instantly transformed into quite an intimidating man indeed.

Mycroft's demeanor changed once again, back to the concerned sibling. "Thank you, Detective Inspector. I do try – when Sherlock will allow it."

Mycroft sat, and John quickly followed suit, dazed once again with the knowledge that Sherlock would survive his ordeal. He willed the surgeons to complete their work so that he could see for himself. He was infinitely grateful for Mycroft, knowing that Sherlock probably wouldn't have made it without him.

John impulsively took Mycroft's hand silently, and gave it a gentle squeeze before pulling back.

Mycroft looked at John, eyes widening at the touch before favoring him with a small but genuine smile.

"Think nothing of it, John. I want him well as much as you do."

John just nodded, unsurprised that Mycroft read him as well as Sherlock could.

The three sat in silence for a while, each growing more tense as the minutes dragged on. Sherlock had been in surgery nearly three hours when finally a surgeon – not the nurse – came to speak with them.

"The surgery went well, as you are already aware. His quadriceps was impaled, which is the most serious of his injuries. It should heal well, though, with time and physiotherapy. He was extremely lucky considering the circumstances. The plastic surgeon is finishing repairs to the skin. Mr. Holmes will be in Recovery momentarily. And yes, you can see him."

The doctor motioned for them to follow him down the hall, where they cleaned their hands with alcohol rub from the dispenser at the door. The doctor swiped his key card to allow them entrance to the large Recovery room. There were a few other patients there, but John didn't notice them. He only had eyes for the man lying still in the hospital bed just a few feet away. He half-ran to the bed, startling the nurse watching over Sherlock's monitors. She relaxed when she saw Mycroft and the surgeon following close behind.

Sherlock was lying on his back, an oxygen mask over his face. He'd been intubated for surgery, John knew, and it was a good sign that he only needed the mask now. He wanted to see him open his eyes, but knew it was too soon to expect it. He looked Sherlock over instead, noticing the lump under the blanket where his leg had been tightly wrapped with layers of bandages. His heart monitor beeped steadily, comfortingly, as he lay unconscious. There were bandages around the burn on his arm, and one wrapped around his head, covering the deep gash. John could see a bit of the povidone iodine they'd used to clean it at the edges of the bandage. There was still a bit of blood crusted around his nostrils, but his face was otherwise clean. He was pale, of course, but his color was much better than when he'd first seen him again.

The surgeon stood at the bedside, where he was soon joined by an anesthesiologist. He informed them that they'd had to adjust the medications to account for his concussion and blood loss, and that he'd likely wake sooner than most patients after surgery. He warned them that it would still be twenty four hours or more before his body cleared the anesthesia, and that he would be given painkillers at regular intervals once moved to the ICU.

As a doctor, John knew all of that already, that Sherlock would be in and out of consciousness, and somewhat addled by the painkillers and sedatives he'd receive there. His eyes never left Sherlock's form as he tuned out the rest of the anesthesiologist's speech.

John looked to the side of the bed and noticed the catheter bag, already containing some urine from all the fluids he'd been given by IV. Of course the catheter was standard procedure, and the urine showed his kidneys were functioning. It was a good sign, but he doubted Sherlock would see it that way once he discovered there was a clear bag with his pee in it hanging conspicuously from the side of his bed. John grinned slightly at that, making a mental note to tell Lestrade not to film it.

The doctors had left, and Mycroft and Lestrade had sat down nearby while John was lost in thought. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, looking up. His mouth opened slightly in confusion as he saw the doctors had gone.

"Thirty minutes," Mycroft said, quietly answering John's unspoken question. He closed his mouth and turned, looking for an empty chair. He grabbed the nearest one with his free hand and dragged it as close to the bed as he could.

The nurse and the three men waited at Sherlock's bedside in silence, listening to Sherlock's heartbeat. The nurse rose to change his bag of saline, but otherwise kept her eye on the computer monitoring him and typing the occasional note.

Sherlock's eyelids fluttered, finally, before he was able to open them a bit. John was first to notice, and leaned closer. "Sherlock? Can you hear me? You're in a hospital. You're going to be alright." John hoped he understood, but there was no reaction from the younger man. His eyelids slipped closed again.

* * *

Sherlock felt weightless. He could discern that he was lying in a bed. He had no idea where, though, and found he didn't much care. He tried to open his eyes, and saw only blurry shapes nearby. A voice floated to him, telling him he was going to be alright. _- Of course I am. I'm fine. I'm just sleepy._ - He closed his eyes.

When Sherlock awoke again, he knew he was in a different room. He opened his eyes again, and the room came mostly into focus. He still felt rather floaty and warm. He was still very tired, but not in any pain. He thought groggily that he must be drugged. He knew now that he was in hospital, probably in the ICU. Something was tickling his nose, and he very slowly raised his hand to his face. There was a plastic tube there – the term nasal cannula came to him as he finally registered the men sitting at his bedside. He lowered his arm and stared at them blankly.

Sherlock had thought the person who'd spoken to him earlier was Jim, but he'd been wrong. He opened his eyes a bit wider as John moved into his line of sight.

"Welcome back, Sherlock," John said, smiling from ear to ear. "Do you know where you are?"

"Hospital," he croaked, his deep voice betraying irritation at such a ridiculous question.

John didn't care. Finally, finally he could look into Sherlock's eyes and know that he was really alive. He reached out to grasp Sherlock's hand, startled when Sherlock weakly pulled his hand back.

Sherlock said. "All of you," he said, his eyes never leaving John's, "Go away."

John tilted his head slightly, puzzled by Sherlock's reaction. His brow creased as he looked to Lestrade and Mycroft briefly. They seemed as startled as he was.

It must be the medications, John thought, and turned to face his best friend. "Sherlock? What's the matter? Are you in pain?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly and slowly exhaled. His eyelids were beginning to droop again. "You're the matter, John Watson. You."

"Sherlock ..." John was staring at him with concern, and a bit of hurt that Sherlock could clearly see, even in his drugged state. - _Good. _-

He pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath and making a concerted effort to stay awake. "Why can't you just leave us alone, hmm?" His heart monitor began beeping faster as he continued. "I know what you did. All of you … " he trailed off, glaring at each of them in turn before settling his angry, half-lidded gaze on John again.

A nurse appeared at his bedside, alerted by his rising heart rate. "I'm afraid I have to ask you gentlemen to leave for now. He needs to rest."

John nodded as they stood to go, utterly confused. "I'll see you later, okay Sherlock?" He asked hopefully.

"I know what you did," Sherlock repeated as they headed for the door. John stopped and turned to Sherlock, grimacing, before following Mycroft and Lestrade out the door. Once they'd gone, Sherlock's vigilance faltered. He once again fell into slumber, his heart rate returning slowly to normal.

* * *

The three men stood just outside the door, peering through the window at Sherlock's sleeping form.

"What the hell was that?" Lestrade asked, breaking the silence.

"He's being affected by the anesthesia and painkillers, surely," Mycroft answered.

John knew that Mycroft was probably correct, but couldn't shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong with his friend. He followed silently as they slowly walked down the hall. He stopped at the door of the ICU waiting room. "I'm just going to … wait here a while. Until he wakes up again."

"Then we shall join you," Mycroft replied immediately, glancing at Lestrade.

"Ahh … yeah, mate, sure we will," Lestrade said. "It's only a matter of time before he'll come to his senses, yeah?"

"Yeah," John mumbled, but couldn't quite persuade himself to believe it. He was haunted by Sherlock's words. 'Why can't you just leave us alone?' his mind replayed. **Us?**

* * *

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.**  
**

**AN: **_Sorry for the delay – again. I'm getting over an awful chest cold, and spent the last week either working or sleeping, occasionally eating when I have to. Bleh. Good news is after sleeping away most of the weekend, I'm feeling much better._

_As always, thank you for reading, reviewing, following, and **especially** favorite-ing this story. I really appreciate it.  
_

**DFTBA**


	22. Options

**Options**

_Fence-mending and forgiveness._

* * *

The three sat in awkward silence as John stared at the clock across the room. It seemed the whole room was designed to make those waiting comfortable. The walls were light yellow-cream, the chairs padded and covered in patterned plaid in muted blues and greens. He felt no comfort. How could anyone waiting in intensive care feel better about their loved ones simply because the chairs weren't plastic, and the walls not painted institutional green or stark white?

A cup of tea was pressed into his hand, Lestrade moving to sit next to him. They'd been waiting over two hours now, but the nurse Mycroft called in told them Sherlock was sleeping and that his vitals were good.

Lestrade handed John a sandwich from the cafeteria. He put it in his lap and stared at it like it was a foreign thing, making no move to take off the wrapper.

"You need to eat something, John. To keep your strength up," Lestrade murmured to him. The room seemed to convey the need for quiet conversation. "Here. At least have an apple with your tea," he said, passing the red fruit to John. He knew John was fond of apples – their flat was always stocked with them.

John handed the sandwich back and stared at the apple in his hand.

"I'll have one if you will," Mycroft said gently, holding his up for John to see.

John took a good look at Mycroft for the first time since that morning. Mycroft's eyes were rimmed with red, underlined with dark marks. His suit was wrinkled and even his hair, normally perfectly in place, was mussed. It was then John noticed he was covered in what looked like plaster dust. They all were.

The scene of Sherlock's rescue slammed into him again. The terrified voice, muted over the radio. Sherlock's voice, saying that he was happy there. Then a young man gasping about a mysterious device, and everyone running for cover. Mycroft was the one who grabbed the young agent beside him who held the radio as they all ran for the car. Lestrade shoved the boy into the front seat before he dove for the back door, slamming it shut behind him just before the first explosion rocked the car.

John heard the too-familiar sound of debris raining down like hail on a stormy night, bouncing and pinging off the car. The moment slowed and John noticed Mycroft's driver barely reacted – just a slight flinch at the explosion, then back to placidly waiting for orders. The young agent was less stoic, jumping in his seat in front of them, dropping his radio to the floor.

"Fetch that, please," Mycroft said, leaning forward from the center seat in back to take the radio the young man shakily handed him.

"Basement!" They heard Marsden shout just before the second explosion rocked the car.

The radio came alive with voices, but John couldn't hear either Marsden or Sherlock's voice among the others. Larger pieces of the gutted house fell onto the roof, but the car remained sound, rocking gently with the movement of the ground underneath. "Cut the chatter!" One man, louder than the others. Not Marsden. "We've got two, maybe three down. Go!"

John couldn't see Sherlock now from his vantage point in the car. He'd seen the three hurtle through the air before they disappeared from view behind the hedges, then nothing.

The moment the sounds of debris hitting the car slowed, he was out the door heading for the line of SUVs that felt suddenly very far away. He heard the other men behind him, but couldn't be bothered to look back. He could see a figure through the smoke and dust, being dragged between two of the agents, then set gingerly on the road behind one of the vehicles.

He stopped short, more afraid than he'd been since the discovery that Sherlock was alive. He saw a medic checking him over, but Sherlock wasn't moving. Mycroft and Lestrade caught up with John. Finally, he was jolted from his paralysis with the knowledge that waiting wasn't going to change whether or not Sherlock had survived. Still, he found himself walking briskly with the two men, but not running.

He could just make out the medic speaking, telling Sherlock to stay awake as they finally, _finally_ reached him. He remembered that sent he'd the medic away, everything else a blur until Sherlock woke … and told him to go away.

He huffed out a tired breath and scrubbed at his face with his hands, feeling grit gather under his fingertips. He stared down at his cup, empty again. "I'm going to the loo," he announced, handing the forgotten apple back to Lestrade. "I just need to – I'm going to clean up a bit." - _And find a nice, quiet stall to fall apart for a minute. - _

* * *

Sherlock woke again. The clock across the room indicated he'd been out for over an hour. He remembered seeing John and the hurt on his face. He smiled slightly, then blanked his face and closed his eyes as he heard a nurse approach. She checked his vitals and scratched down a few notes – _Cheap pen, hospital issued. Not designed for left-handed writing._ - His leg was really starting to hurt. He groaned involuntarily.

"Sherlock, do you need your pain medication? It's time, if you want it," the nurse told him.

He shook his head. "No, I'm fine," he replied without opening his eyes.

She patted his good arm. "Just let one of us know when you'd like it, okay? We don't want you in too much pain. It slows the healing, dear."

He heard her shoes squeaking as she walked away. He desperately wanted the pain meds, but it was too risky. He needed a clear head to consider his next move.

Sherlock was certain Jim had escaped. All of Mycroft's attention had been on capturing him – and having his men plant the bomb in their home. He sighed, remembering the photos on the mantel, now burnt away as if they never existed. As if Sherlock and Jim never existed. But he knew differently now, and wouldn't let Mycroft or his lackeys make him forget again.

His options, at present, were severely limited due to his injuries. There was certainly no way for him to slip out of the hospital unnoticed, even if he could walk. That left playing along. Playing John for a fool, until Jim contacted him. He smiled again. He could do that.

* * *

Mycroft and Lestrade were left alone in the room. Lestrade was uncomfortable with the silence, but held his tongue. He doubted Mycroft was up for a chat about sports or weather, and he wasn't going to be the one to broach the topic of Sherlock's behaviour.

Mycroft broke the silence. "I'm certain he didn't mean what he said."

"No, no. 'Course not," Lestrade replied. He set John's sandwich and apple in the empty chair and began distractedly picking tiny bits of plaster from his trousers. "With all he's been through, I suppose it's to be expected," he said, not looking up.

They were interrupted by an ICU nurse at the doorway. "Mister Holmes is awake again. Asking to see John?"

Lestrade stood. "He's just down the hall. I'll fetch him."

He caught up with John just as he exited the men's room. His face was clean, though his eyes a bit more red and watery than before. He looked up at Lestrade expectantly.

"He's awake - asking for you," Lestrade smiled, settling his arm around John's shoulders as they walked towards the ICU.

The tightness that had settled in John's chest that morning began to release a bit. Lestrade stopped at the door of the waiting room where the nurse was still standing. John looked in to see Mycroft still seated patiently. He glanced up to meet John's gaze.

"Go on, John," he said calmly. "They do prefer patients have one visitor at a time, and he asked for you – specifically."

"Oh," John said. He paused a moment longer as a half-smile, half-grimace crossed his face. He pivoted on his heel to follow the nurse.

Lestrade moved into the waiting room, still staring at the empty doorway. "John looks like a man walking to his death. He should be happy, shouldn't he?" he said, eyebrows quirking up.

Mycroft didn't reply. He sighed, lowering his chin to his chest. He'd seen the venom, the betrayal in Sherlock's eyes. He couldn't convince himself it was due to Sherlock's injuries and anesthetic, as Lestrade had. He knew with certainty that John felt the same misgivings.

* * *

Sherlock looked up as John made his way slowly to his bedside. - _Showtime. -_

"Is it okay if I sit down?" John asked, gesturing uncertainly at a nearby chair.

Sherlock nodded. "John, I'm so sorry," he began as the older man sat next to him. Sherlock reached out his hand, and John took it, relief washing over his face.

"You haven't anything to be sorry for, Sherlock."

"I do," he continued. "I left you … without saying anything. I couldn't – I couldn't. Even when I called you from the rooftop. After Moriarty … after he … I thought he was dead." Sherlock gazed up at the ceiling then, holding back tears.

"Hey. Hey," John said soothingly, squeezing Sherlock's hand.

"I should have known," Sherlock replied, looking back at John. "But I didn't."

"It's alright. You're here now. Mycroft's people found it, found Moriarty's blood on the roof. But it wasn't fresh. It had to be a set up. You couldn't have known."

_My brother knew. Interesting. -_ "And then he … I can't remember. Did he – Moriarty – did he kidnap me?" Sherlock continued, watching John's face carefully. Seeing no sign of doubt there, he allowed himself to wince at the pain throbbing in his leg and arm.

"Sherlock. We'll talk about this later. You need rest," John said, waving over a nurse.

"But John, I need to tell you … "

John interrupted him, his protective instincts taking over. "You're in pain, Sherlock. There's plenty of time to suss this out. Later."

The nurse arrived, syringe in hand. As she injected it into the port on Sherlock's IV line, she told John quietly, "He refused the meds a little while ago. I think he wanted to be able to speak with you." She gave them both a reassuring smile, disposed of the needle in the sharps container and walked away.

Sherlock felt the drug humming through his veins, but it wasn't quite time to let sleep take him. -_ Fence-mending, then sleep. -_

"John," he said, his voice deep and drowsy. "What I said before. I thought … I thought you were Moriarty." He took a breath. "Sorry," he slurred, his eyelids drooping.

John furrowed his brow, surprised he remembered anything about their last visit. He found himself leaning closer, watching Sherlock's eyes finally close. "It's fine," he whispered. "Sleep now."

"You too. 'M not going anywhere …" he mumbled, his hand going lax in John's.

John held his hand a moment longer as he stood to go, unable to take his eyes off Sherlock.

Sherlock smiled as he drifted off.

* * *

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**AN:**_ Thanks for reading! I am forever grateful for your favorites, reviews, and follows._

**DFTBA**


	23. Takeaway

**Takeaway**

_John and Sherlock talk noodles. And suicide._

* * *

Mycroft and Lestrade could tell right away that his visit with Sherlock had gone well. John had entered the waiting room, a small smile gracing his lips for the first time in months.

"He's feeling better, then?" Lestrade asked.

"Yeah. Tired, but more lucid. Much better. Told me he thought I was Moriarty."

Mycroft hummed quietly but said nothing.

"Well that's fantastic, then, innit?" Lestrade replied. "So John, should you get a bit of a rest, maybe come back in the morning?"

"No, I, um … I think I'll see if I can find a cot somewhere. Kip here for the night." He caught Lestrade's tired look and realized why he'd really asked. "Oh, but you – you should definitely get home. You know, have a shower and a rest. Sherlock _claims_ he's not going anywhere," John finished, smiling again.

After John convinced him he would be fine on his own, Lestrade headed home. Mycroft walked with John to talk to Sherlock's primary doctor. He assured them that Sherlock should sleep through the night, and that they had a cot down the hall in the doctor's lounge John could use.

Mycroft made it clear to the doctor that John was considered family, could see Sherlock whenever he liked, and was to be kept fully informed of his progress. The doctor assured him he would pass it on to the rest of the staff. Mycroft looked down at John then, guaging his mood. John still found that look slightly unnerving – it was bad enough when his brother did it – but Mycroft was apparently satisfied by what he saw.

"I shall take my leave as well, John, if you don't mind."

"No, no, of course. I'll see you in the morning?" John had become accustomed to spending time with Mycroft, and found he'd become a mostly comforting presence. When he wasn't directing his laser-like attention on him, anyway.

"Yes," Mycroft said as he departed, swinging his umbrella rather lightheartedly, John thought before heading for the doctor's lounge. He managed to sleep fitfully, checking in on Sherlock whenever he woke from his blessedly dreamless slumber. He knew there'd been no change in his condition – or he'd have been informed – but needed to see Sherlock to confirm once again that he was real, and alive. Even watching Sherlock in sleep, his leg elevated and wrapped in a knee immobiliser and mounds of bandages made John feel that he could finally breathe again.

* * *

He woke again in the lounge when he heard the trolley laden with breakfast trays being trundled down the hall. He dusted off his clothes and washed his face before heading back to Sherlock, only slightly surprised to hear his voice raised in argument. Already.

"Then talk to the doctor, if you can't be more helpful," John heard him say to his nurse. "I don't want to be surrounded by all these _dying_ _people_." He pitched his voice louder, and the nurses flinched as they checked to make sure the other patients hadn't heard him. "It's depressing. And dull," he finished, seeing John walking towards him.

"Bored already, eh?" John asked.

"Naturally," Sherlock said, reaching for John's hand.

John looked up at Sherlock's monitors as he took his hand, pleased to see they'd removed the nasal cannula and his O2 sats were at 98 percent. "So you're taking it out on the nurses."

"No, just that one." He waved his other hand lazily in the direction of his nurse's retreating back. "I want to move out of the ICU, and she keeps avoiding the issue. 'Oh, you'll have to talk to the doctor, love,' 'Oh, I'm sure it'll be soon, dearie,'" he said, mocking her Scottish brogue. "_Soon_. What a ridiculous word. Means nothing."

"You've worked yourself into quite a lather for so early in the day," John smiled. "Welcome back."

Sherlock glanced at him sideways before realizing he was joking with him. He took in a sharp breath through his mouth and exhaled loudly through his nose, lips pressed firmly together.

"Yes, well. It's good to see you too." He motioned to the chair next to his bed, his face relaxing into a mischievous grin. "Do have a seat, John. Entertain me until that wretched doctor shows up."

John's eyebrows flickered momentarily as he took his seat. "Right. What do you want to talk about?"

"Is it in the papers yet?" At John's quizzical look, Sherlock continued. "My 'Miraculous Return'" he said, his hand drawing an imaginary headline in the air. "It's been leaked to The Sun by now, surely."

"You'd have to ask your brother."

Sherlock's expression turned sour. "My brother," he said, reaching his hand up to run it through his hair. He was momentarily confused by the bandage, then grew determined and began to feel around the top of it.

"Oh, god!" He cried out, startling the nurses again. "They shaved my hair off. In the front, John! What the bloody hell am I supposed to do while it grows back? A wig? A comb-over?" He released John to move both his hands through his hair, trying to find a way to cover the bandage.

"Sherlock. Calm down, alright? You're frightening people." John avoided mentioning Sherlock's emotional display had him a bit frightened as well. "Just … keep your voice down, please?"

He glared at John balefully for a moment, then took another sharp, dramatic breath before continuing more quietly. "Of course, John. I'm sorry. It must be all the drugs they're giving me." Sherlock slowed his breathing, favored John with an apologetic look.

"Would you like me to find your doctor for you?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Thanks," he said, smiling. John made his way around the food cart and headed into the hall to find the doctor.

The orderly set up Sherlock's tray and set down a plate of food, removing the cover with Sherlock's name sticker on the side. "I'll have that one," he said, pushing his food dangerously close to the edge of the little tray, pointing to a plate still resting in the cart.

"That one's for Mrs. Hamilton. It's got her name on it," the orderly replied, puzzled.

"Yes, but it's the same food, correct?" Sherlock's voice had gone up a notch again.

"Yeah, but-"

Sherlock interrupted, "Then give me _that one. _I'm certain Mrs. Hamilton won't mind. She's about to slip into a coma anyway."

"Fine," the orderly huffed, switching his plate. "But you shouldn't be talking about other patients that way."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, dismissing the man with a wave.

Three minutes later, Mrs. Hamilton's nurse found she was unable to wake the old woman, and a doctor was called in. Sherlock grinned savagely over the –_ soon-to-be late Mrs. Hamilton's -_ porridge. "Told you," he mumbled, taking another bite.

* * *

A few hours later, Sherlock was cleared to move to a private room. Mycroft had called John, informing him that fresh clothes were waiting for him in the doctor's lounge. He showered quickly and changed into the clothes Mycroft provided while Sherlock's room was being prepared. Mycroft apparently had someone purchase a new outfit for John. The black trousers and dark blue jumper were far too expensive to be his, but fit nicely. John wasn't sure whether to be grateful or offended, but he didn't spend much time thinking about it. He left the hospital briefly to visit the Chinese restaurant around the corner for takeaway, focused on getting back to Sherlock.

"John!" Sherlock called, smiling as he saw the older man enter his room carrying a brown bag. He smelled fried rice and chicken wafting from the bag, and his stomach gurgled a bit.

"My, don't we look dashing today. I don't recall you wearing that jumper before. A gift from Mycroft, I imagine," Sherlock said.

"Yeah," John replied, staring down at himself. "Doesn't quite go with my shoes, though," he said, noticing his worn brown loafers.

"Well," Sherlock said, still smiling as he gestured to the chair by his bed, "I'm sure he'll be sending you new ones." - _Since you're such a good little lap dog. -_

John set the bag down before he took the chair, and looked Sherlock over. He was definitely improved from the previous day. His color was better, his eyes brighter – but there was still something off about him. He was still a little too … cheery.

"So, happy to be in your own room? I haven't seen you smile this much since the crime scene in North London when you told Anderson the woman's glove wasn't was missing – he was just standing on it."

_Perhaps because you had me drugged all the time. _- "Am I not allowed to smile, John?" Sherlock asked, a little harshly. "No, it's not the room. I'm pleased to see you," he added quickly. "It's been quite a while, hasn't it?" His eyes took on a faraway look. "It seems like it's been a long time, but it's a bit hazy at the moment."

"It has, Sherlock. Far too long." John said seriously.

"How long?"

There was a pause before John answered. "Over four months. We- I- I thought you were gone forever."

"Over … four_ months?_" Sherlock said, momentarily dumbstruck by John's answer. "Was it really that long? What happened? Where was I?" He then asked in his usual rapid-fire manner.

"Well, ahh. Yes, it was over four months. I haven't seen you since mid-June. -_ When you made me watch you die. -_ It's late October now. And I've no idea where you were. You don't remember any of that time?" John asked quietly.

"Mmm … I remember looking for children. An ambassador's?" At this, John nodded. "They'd been kidnapped. We found them. The police – and the press – decided that I was the kidnapper. Moriarty was trying to ruin my reputation, and doing a good job of it," Sherlock shook his head, his eyes squinting and brows furrowed. "Then- then I was on Bart's rooftop with him. He told me _something_ … then he shot himself. I called you. I think I was telling you goodbye." He shook his head in frustration. "Why can't I remember what happened after that?"

John was at a loss seeing Sherlock's confusion. He didn't know if it was wise to tell him. He didn't even know if he could bear to dredge up the memories of that day. Again. "Don't worry Sherlock, I'm sure it'll come back to you." John patted Sherlock's arm reassuringly.

"You didn't answer my question," Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off John. "You told me how long, and that you don't know where I was, but you didn't tell me what happened. How did I … disappear, for lack of a better term? Something tells me I didn't just wander off."

John swallowed hard, considering his words carefully. "I think maybe it's better if you remember it yourself," he answered tentatively.

"But I don't remember, John. That's why I need you to tell me," Sherlock said angrily.

John shook his head, exasperated. "Alright. You want to know what happened after you called me, after Moriarty convinced you he was dead? Are you sure you want to know?" Now John was angry. Angry at what Sherlock did, angrier that he was determined to make him relive it.

"Yes, John, or I wouldn't be asking!"

"Fine. You tossed the phone, and then I watched you jump off the _fucking_ roof, okay? You were fucking _dead_, Sherlock! I saw you." John was breathing heavily, tears threatening.

Sherlock regarded him sharply for a moment. "You're telling the truth," he stated flatly. - _Mycroft didn't tell him he arranged my 'death' as a cover up. He let John believe it. Why would he do that? - _

John laughed, a short, painful sound not brought on by humour in the least. He covered his face with his hands.

"John," Sherlock said, timidly touching John's forearm. There was no reaction, so he tried again, grasping his wrist gently. "John?"

John moved his hands away from his face, and from Sherlock's touch. "Jesus, Sherlock. What more do you want me to say?" He finally looked up, and saw Sherlock crying silently, looking away.

"Shit," John said, sighing heavily. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have-"

"But I asked, John. Adamantly. I didn't know – didn't remember - that I'd hurt you so badly. I wish I remembered. I'm sorry, John."

John heaved in a deep breath and sat up straight. - _Carry on like a good Englishman, John. _- "Right then. You wish you remembered, I wish I didn't, and we're both sorry." He paused. "Chinese?"

Sherlock grinned, acknowledging the unspoken agreement to drop the subject.

"I brought your favorite dumplings," John said, holding up the bag.

Sherlock's stomach betrayed him by rumbling again. "No," he said firmly. "I've just had breakfast a few hours ago."

"Sherlock, you can't be serious. I just heard your stomach. I know you're hungry, and hospital food's nothing to write home about."

"Hmm," Sherlock murmured, staring into space. "Dearest Mummy, I just had the best porridge ever …"

John laughed. "Seriously, though. You need to eat. It'll help you heal faster."

"Will it?" Sherlock pinned John with his stare.

"Umm … yes?" John said, perplexed. - _Relax, John, he's just moody. It's got to be down to the concussion and pain meds. -_

"Supper will be here soon. And anyway, I don't feel like Chinese," Sherlock turned away from John.

"Suit yourself," John said. "Mind if I … ?"

"Of course," Sherlock waved at him. He turned back, watching carefully to see which boxes John chose to eat from. - _He wouldn't drug his own food, certainly. _-

"Cheers. I'm starving." John dug into the pork noodle dish and stuffed a forkful into his mouth.

Sherlock grabbed the box, smiling devilishly as he pulled the fork from John's hand. "You know, I'm feeling a bit peckish after all."

"Oi!" John laughed, mouth still full. "You don't even like rice noodles!"

"Yes I do," Sherlock replied cheerfully. He took a bite and rolled his eyes in mock-ecstacy. "See? I love them."

John reached for the box, but Sherlock switched it to his other hand, waving the fork at John admonishingly. "Don't you know I need to eat? It'll help me heal faster. Apparently."

John shook his head and let out a genuine laugh, reaching for another box of food and a fork.

Sherlock leaned over to see what John had chosen. - _Hmm. Looks like my second course is fried rice. _-

* * *

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**AN:** _Sorry there wasn't any action/adventure this time. I wanted to lighten the mood, a bit. Soon – next chapter, probably – the boys go back to Baker Street!_

**DFTBA**


	24. It'll Get Better

**It'll Get Better**

_Sherlock doesn't want help. He's fine. Just ask him._

* * *

Sherlock had grown increasingly agitated over several days in hospital as his leg started to heal and he needed less medication, and subsequently less sleep. He was doing everything he could to get out of the hospital short of trying to escape. He would have, but he still couldn't move his leg much, so he doubted he'd get far. Besides, he really had nowhere to go. So he took his frustration out on any and all medical staff unlucky enough to be in the vicinity of a very bored and cranky Sherlock Holmes.

Not surprisingly, the papers got hold of the story of Sherlock's return. John was more impressed that Mycroft's influence had kept it locked down as long it was – four days. Probably one of the staff, angry at Sherlock's treatment, had leaked the information. Mycroft was looking for them, and whoever the poor sod was, they were going to have a hell of a time trying to find work once he found them. Which he would; John had no doubt of that.

Kitty Riley had broken the story, the little bitch. Her career had profited handsomely from Sherlock's misfortunes. The knowledge that Mycroft would see to her as well was little comfort when he read through the story. Still, it was something.

John had a very awkward conversation with Molly the day the news broke. She didn't hide her hurt that nobody had told her, but underneath that, he could tell she was hiding something. John wasn't as clever as Sherlock, but it didn't take a Holmes to know she had information she wasn't giving him. He'd have to pay her a visit soon. In the mean time, he'd convinced her not to visit while Sherlock was in the hospital – he'd have her in tears thirty seconds after she came in the door. John promised he'd call when they got home, and that she could visit soon.

The only time Sherlock was inclined to behave was when the physiotherapists came around to help him start to use his leg. They insisted he use a walker at first, which Sherlock found humiliating in the extreme, but he was willing to tolerate it to get out of there. He still had to wear the knee immobiliser and compression bandage for another 10 days, but they wanted him moving and putting a little weight on his leg to test his muscles and come up with a long-term therapy plan.

John was waiting in Sherlock's room when he returned from that morning's physiotherapy.

After the therapists helped him back into bed they left the room, looking extremely relieved. They have no idea, John thought. Sherlock's taunts had been mild. It was the closest he'd come to being civil in the past couple of days. Once they left he was back to his snit, glaring silently at his leg as if he could will it to heal.

* * *

John certainly wasn't the only one relieved when Sherlock was released after a week. It was just past ten in the morning, and the day promised to be cloudy, grey, and cold – almost as dark as Sherlock's mood. The staff had promised he would be released earlier in the morning, so he was especially moody. Listening to Sherlock's whinging and trying to pace using crutches while they waited for the doctors to "sign a few more things" had just about driven John round the bend. Finally, he shouted at Sherlock to just be _patient_, for god's sake.

Surprisingly, Sherlock quieted immediately, glancing at him for the briefest moment in what John could swear was fear before he schooled his features into indifference. He settled back onto his bed, already dressed in a plain blue shirt and loose tracksuit trousers – the only ones that would fit over his bandaged leg. "Of course, John," was all he said before going silent for the next hour.

Lestrade had arrived just before the paperwork was finally completed, and offered to drive them home. John gratefully accepted. Sherlock said nothing. John took the passenger seat after maneuvering Sherlock into the back, his leg stretched across the seats.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked as they made their way through traffic to Baker Street. "Mycroft has a spare bedroom on the ground floor."

"Yes, John. I'm sure I have no desire to stay with _Mycroft_."

John heaved a sigh, knowing already that Sherlock wouldn't agree to it. Their relationship had been cold before, but now it was positively glacial. Sherlock had refused to speak, or even look at Mycroft when he came to visit. Mycroft persisted, visiting him every day. He never stayed more than five minutes. John suspected that he couldn't stay away, needing to see Sherlock in the flesh, just to confirm his little brother was alive.

When they arrived at the flat, it took several minutes to get Sherlock out of the car and through the front door. John and Lestrade both looked at the stairs warily, but Sherlock ignored their hesitation, limping to the foot of the steps on his crutches. He turned and handed John the crutch supporting his right side, then grabbed the banister instead. He used the other crutch to hold him up as he tried to lift his left leg awkwardly onto the first step.

John was at his side a bare moment later, hand under his left arm to help him. Sherlock glared at John's hand, his displeasure evident. "I'm fine," he said firmly, pulling from John's grasp as he moved the crutch to the second stair.

- _Stubborn git._ - John acquiesced, stationing himself two steps above Sherlock as Lestrade stood a step below.

In that manner Sherlock slowly, slowly managed the stairs himself, taking almost a full minute for each step. By the time they reached the first landing, he paused to rest, panting lightly as he looked out the little window there.

He ignored the other men's worried looks as he began up the second set of steps leading to the flat. He looked up to find Mrs. Hudson hovering at the kitchen door, hands fluttering as she took in the sight of Sherlock for the first time in so many months, distressed she could do nothing to help him reach his destination. She disappeared into the kitchen as he made his way carefully to the top, and he heard dishes being moved about as she set up a meal. Sherlock had already noticed the welcome scent of her cooking, most likely a full English breakfast, and steaming tea Sherlock would accept - because he'd deduced that John hadn't had a chance to tamper with it.

He increased his pace, just a bit, surprised at how hungry he was. Once he made it to the landing and stepped to the kitchen doorway, she was there again, her face wrinkled with concern she was spectacularly failing to hide.

"Sherlock, dear. Oh, but it's so good to see you, even in this state!" She reached towards him, but at the last moment refrained from a hug, simply putting a hand on his shoulder and softly kissing his cheek in greeting. He nodded in return, continuing to the second entrance, and gingerly set himself on the sofa. Sherlock allowed her to fuss over him, nattering on about food and sofa cushions while she made sure his leg was propped up on several pillows. He leaned back, sitting against the arm of the sofa nearest the window.

"Back in a tick. You just rest now," Mrs. Hudson said, walking around the two men standing in the middle of the room, unsure what to do with themselves. She solved their dilemma by handing each a plate of food, then returned to the kitchen to fetch Sherlock's breakfast plate and tea. She set the plate and mug of tea on the table, then placed another pillow on his lap before handing him breakfast, leaving his tea within easy reach on the table.

"Go on, boys, you can fetch your own tea," she said over her shoulder. "It's just there on the countertop."

She sat on the table next to the sofa. It was a bit shocking to see her there, but she was intent on making sure Sherlock ate. She ignored the glances John and Lestrade shot her way before they headed into the kitchen.

Sherlock dug into the food without being cajoled, and Mrs. Hudson was pleasantly surprised to see him eating a proper meal.

"Mrs. Hudson, your food is unbeatable, as ever," he told her between bites.

She glowed with pride and relief in equal measure. "Flatterer. It's just a simple meal, though I do have a cake almost ready. I'll bring it up later."

He grinned at her, knowing she'd have some pastry or other waiting for him. He finished his meal, half-listening to the quiet conversation in the kitchen while Mrs. Hudson sat watching him, unable to turn away from the sight of her boy back where he belonged. Alive and getting well.

She excused herself after taking away his empty plate, promising to return with the cake once it fully cooled. She was fighting back tears, again doing a terrible job hiding them.

Sherlock occupied himself by scanning through his discharge papers while still listening to the men in the kitchen. He settled on the after-care instruction sheet.

…

"After surgery you will require some type of pain management, including ice and medications. About 2 weeks after surgery, your skin sutures or staples will be removed in the surgeon's office."

_- Oh, Joy. -  
_

"Most likely, your repair will be protected with a knee immobilizer or a long leg cast. You may be allowed to put your weight on your leg with the use of a brace and crutches (or a walker)."

_- Ugh. Tedious. -_

"Complete recovery takes at least 4 months."

_- You've got to be joking. -_

"If normal walking hurts, shorten your stride."

_- At last, John will be able to keep up with me. For a while. -_

"Apply ice or a cold pack to the quadriceps area for 15 to 20 minutes, 4 times a day for several days after release from hospital. Wrap the ice or cold pack in a towel. Do not apply the ice directly to your skin."

_- Who would be stupid enough to do that? Oh, yes. Almost everyone. -_

"Wear an elastic compression bandage around your thigh to prevent additional swelling. Be careful not to wrap the bandage too tightly."

_- Obviously. -_

"_When the acute pain is gone, start gentle stretching exercises as recommended by your health care professional. Stay within pain limits. Hold each stretch for about 10 seconds and repeat 6 times."_

_- Onerous. But necessary. - _

**...**

In the kitchen, John was less than enthusiastic when Lestrade told him that Donovan and Anderson had asked if they could visit.

"Why the hell would they want to? What gives them the right, anyway, after what they put him through? We all know they were the ones who forced the issue to have Sherlock arrested."

"Yeah," Lestrade said, holding his hands up in a placating gesture. "And they know it too. I think they both feel pretty guilty over the whole thing. I thought you'd say no, and I understand. But I did promise them I'd ask."

"It'd serve them right to see him, the mood he's in. He'd tear them to pieces. But it's only been a week, and I don't want him to get too worked up."

"I'm sure you're right, John," Lestrade replied. "But, ahh, is it alright for me to visit him for a bit?"

"Of course. Just don't expect much. I don't think he'll be happy until he can sprint across London's rooftops again. He's far too bored to accept being stuck in the flat for long."

"When's he going to have the knee brace off?" Lestrade asked.

"Not soon enough!" Sherlock shouted from the sofa.

"Oh bloody hell, he can hear us." John grimaced before continuing. "If you wouldn't mind staying now, that would be great. Sherlock's asked for a few things, so I'd like to stop by Tesco's at some point today. But don't worry about it, Mrs. Hudson can look after him if you have to get back to the station."

"No problem, mate. I'll see what I can do to keep him occupied."

"Right. Well, good luck with that," John said tiredly, taking his coat with him as he headed for the stairs.

* * *

Lestrade moved John's chair to face the sofa, then sat, trying to think of what to say.

Sherlock was first to break the silence. "So. Donovan and Anderson. I suppose they want to attempt to make amends," he said levelly.

"Um, yeah." Lestrade said, clearing his throat in the ensuing silence. "I'll tell them not to bother you, of course."

"No, no," Sherlock replied, his tone generous and kind. A little too kind. "Do have them come by. Tomorrow afternoon would be fine."

Lestrade looked at him critically, trying to decide why he would be so eager to see them. Of course there was only one feasible answer – he was bored, and he wanted to watch them squirm. Fair enough, after what they'd done.

"Yeah? Okay, I'll let them know," he said, unaware of Sherlock's real motivation.

Sherlock had thought over his old acquaintances, determining which were likely to be involved in Mycroft's scheming. By the way they treated him, Sally Donovan and What's-his-name Anderson weren't part of the plan. Mrs. Hudson was also safe – he knew she was too fond of him to hurt him. And anyway, she was an atrocious liar. He knew he could use all of them to his advantage, given a bit more time to work out the details.

Sherlock sipped his tea silently, looking at Lestrade through half-lidded eyes, sizing up his reaction. Lestrade had no clue about his plans, of that he was sure. He was also fairly certain Lestrade had stayed to keep an eye on him so he couldn't begin his search of the flat for the evidence of betrayal he knew was there. Somewhere.

* * *

Lestrade sighed none-too-quietly with relief when he heard John open the front door. He practically raced down the stairs to help him with his bags. Sherlock was giving the DI the creeps, though he couldn't say exactly why. He'd watched Sherlock deep in thought, rubbing absently at the bandage over his forehead, his other hand moving to scratch lightly at the wrap covering the burn on his right forearm. It wasn't his normal, still pose of concentration within his Mind Palace. Sherlock's slight grin as he thought reminded Lestrade more of overt scheming than the careful contemplation he'd come to expect from the detective.

Sherlock, for his part, was thinking about his recovery, and how he could reduce the time needed before he could be fully independent. Sherlock was well aware the bandage on his head wasn't necessary any longer, but he didn't want to remove it until the hair grew back a bit and he could cover the rest with the hair just above the alarming bald spot. He wanted to look good for Jim – as far as possible in his current condition.

While in hospital, the plastic surgeon had come to assure him there would be minimal scarring on his arm. As long as he kept it liberally coated with burn cream, and bandaged to protect the wound as it healed, his arm would eventually look relatively normal. At least there was that. He didn't want Jim to view him as damaged goods.

As Lestrade followed John up the stairs, he told him that Sherlock actually wanted to see Donovan and Anderson. John shook his head, resigned. "Well, then I almost feel sorry for them." Lestrade chuckled quietly as they entered the kitchen. "You and me both, mate."

Lestrade was helping John put away the groceries when they heard Sherlock's voice from the sitting room. "Would you bring me a bottle of water, please?"

It had been Sherlock's foremost request when he'd told John what he wanted from the store. Lots and lots of bottled water. John had no idea why, but it was good to see him staying hydrated, so he was happy to buy several cases. He walked over and handed him a bottle.

Sherlock inspected it carefully – a little too carefully – before opening it and taking a sip.

John shook his head slightly, staring at his flatmate's continued strange behavior. "Sorry it's not cold. They didn't have any cases left in the cooler."

Sherlock just shrugged as he drank his water.

"If you wouldn't mind," Sherlock told John after finishing half the bottle, "I'd like to go to my room to rest for a bit. It's been a while since I've seen it, but if I recall correctly the bed is far more comfortable than this sofa."

"Oh. Of course," John answered, feeling slightly guilty that he hadn't thought of that. "Just give us a minute – I haven't changed the bedding yet."

Sherlock nodded. John asked Lestrade if he could help, again feeling a twinge of guilt that the blankets and the room itself was still dusty from disuse. He'd been too preoccupied, too overwhelmed, and hadn't considered the little things Sherlock would need until now.

They quickly changed the bedding and replaced the blankets with a clean duvet. John dusted the side table, then stepped back to survey the room, making sure there were no obstructions to get in the way of Sherlock's crutches when he was ready to move about.

Satisfied, he walked back to the sitting room, Lestrade just behind him. "It's ready for you. Do you want some help … ?" John already knew the answer.

"No. I'm fine," Sherlock said, his voice cool. "Just hand me the crutches. And bring my water."

John complied, handing them over and picking up the bottle. He stayed back, ready to leap forward if Sherlock fell as he stood, his left leg planted behind him as he balanced himself. John moved the table out of his way, relieved, then stood back again, knowing better than to offer his help a second time. Sherlock limped to his room on the crutches without assistance, trying to become accustomed to maneuvering around the flat. He'd need the skill soon enough.

Once he sat on the bed, he allowed John to take his crutches and set them next to the bed. John had already pulled the covers down, so Sherlock gingerly pulled his leg up onto the bed, moving to the center and propping his foot up on the pillow set up for it under the duvet. He lay back and pulled the covers over himself.

John moved to the bathroom and returned with Sherlock's pain pills, which he took without comment.

Sherlock looked up at John, noting Lestrade standing uncertainly behind him. "If you would close the door on your way out, that would be lovely," he said, effectively dismissing them as he closed his eyes, listening as they left.

He sighed, exhausted, but wanting to stay awake to eavesdrop on what they said when he was supposedly out of earshot. Despite his desires, he knew sleep would come sooner than he liked.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't planned or even expected to fall asleep so quickly. He found, though, that the familiar sounds of the house creaking, the traffic outside, and the smell of Mrs. Hudson's baking were too much to resist. He promised himself he'd only close his eyes for a few minutes.

After Lestrade left a half hour later, John went to Sherlock's bedroom door, hoping to discreetly check on him, when he heard disconcerting noises coming from inside the room. Sherlock was moaning quietly, and John could hear the sheets and blankets being shuffled about. He hesitantly opened the door.

The sound of the door opening startled Sherlock, but he remained sleeping, thrashing and rolling in his bed, oblivious to his injuries. His eyes rolled back and forth under his lids. He held his arms in front of him in a defensive pose, palms up as if he were expecting an attack.

John moved to stand next to the bed. "Sherlock," he called quietly. "Sherlock, wake up. You're dreaming. You need to wake up."

"NO! He's safe. I made him safe. Jimmy … you promised," Sherlock mumbled.

John's heart sank seeing his friend so distressed. "Sherlock, it's John. I'm here. You're safe. Please, wake up." Though he knew it was a bad idea, John couldn't help but set his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Don't. Don't. Don't." Sherlock's eyes opened, unseeing, and he jerked away from John as he half-sat up in bed. "You attacked me. You … "

_- Jim. Carlo. John. _–

"- you hurt me. You drugged me. Stop." His eyes closed again as he slumped back onto his pillows.

Sherlock wasn't waking up, and he needed John's help. Against his better judgment, he sat on the bed, turned sideways, and moved Sherlock half into his lap, against his chest. He put his arms on Sherlock's shoulders, hoping to calm him. "Sherlock. Come on, you're safe now."

His body stiffened under John's touch. Sherlock opened his eyes again and turned his head to look at John. "You're not Jim," he said clearly.

"No," John said, returning his gaze. "I'm not. You had a nightmare. You're okay. You're safe."

"Stop saying that!" Sherlock bellowed. "I'm not safe! Never safe … " He tried to yank himself out of John's grasp, but John held on. John moved fully onto the bed, sitting Sherlock up and pushing himself against his back, stretching his legs beside Sherlock's. He could feel the hot skin under his shirt, and see the sweat sticking Sherlock's hair to the back of his neck. John wrapped both arms around Sherlock's shoulders, holding him gently in place.

Sherlock stiffened further, then suddenly reached up with his injured arm to pull viciously at his own hair, and used his other hand to grab at the bandages over his burn, scratching and tugging at them.

"Sherlock!" John cried, alarmed by his sudden attempts to harm himself. He reached around and pulled Sherlock's hand from his hair. He took Sherlock's left wrist in his right hand, his left hand grasping Sherlock's right wrist. He crossed Sherlock's arms against his chest to stop him injuring himself further.

Sherlock groaned piteously, squirming and trying to slide out of John's arms, his good leg kicking at the blankets. He slammed his head into John's chest, just missing his chin. He tried to pull his arms free, twisting his wrists, long fingers pulling at John's knuckles, trying to pry his hands off. John held fast, praying this ugly moment would end. He had intimate knowledge of the terrible nightmares that came after a trauma, and the instinctive, panicked attacks that sometimes followed, but he'd never witnessed one firsthand. It terrified him.

This was not at all what John had imagined for their reunion and homecoming. Punches, maybe. Hugs, sure. Snarking? Without question. But the morose, emotional yet distant man now struggling in his arms was nothing like the Sherlock he knew. The concussion had been minor, and the doses of strong medication long gone from his system, yet this stranger remained in Sherlock's place.

John had even imagined briefly, before Sherlock came home, that there would be embracing – perhaps even in Sherlock's bed – though he hadn't let his thoughts travel far in that direction. Holding Sherlock as the man wrestled against him was too much to bear.

Desperation edged John's voice as he held him. "Please. Sherlock, please."

A part of Sherlock sensed the rightness of John being close, having him so near. But he was overwhelmed by the sensation of John holding him too tight_,_ like a human straightjacket. He could escape neither John, nor the crushing fear screaming hurt and betrayal and _get the fuck away_ and NO.

Sherlock ceased his struggling after what seemed like an eternity. There was no use. He trembled as he looked over his shoulder at John. "Why aren't you … why don't you just hit me? Get it over with." His tone was resigned, exhausted from the effort of trying to get away.

John released Sherlock's wrists, stunned. What had Moriarty done to make him think John could ever, _ever_ hurt him? He knew Sherlock was still half-asleep, but even then – even drugged by Ms. Adler's concoction – he was always grasping for logical answers, for the observations that _fit._

Always, until now. Christ, who was this man in his arms, tense and terrified? "Do you really think I could hit you?"

Sherlock saw the shock, the hurt in John's eyes. It confused his already dazed mind. "I don't- I don't know." He felt himself relax as the last of his frantic energy left, slumping down to rest his head against John's chest.

"I was dreaming," Sherlock said, awake enough now to realize he'd already given too much away.

- _No. Can't tell. Won't tell. Play the game. Wait for Jim. Can't trust John. Jim wouldn't lie to me. He wouldn't. - _

"Yes." John took a relieved breath, moving to rub Sherlock's back and shoulders in soft circles. "You were dreaming."

Sherlock's breath hitched, and he let his tears fall quietly, leaning into John's touch. He knew his tears would affect the other man to his advantage, but they were also genuine.

"My leg hurts," he whispered.

John leaned back against the pillows, finding a comfortable position and running his hands through Sherlock's sweat-dampened hair. It was longer now, longer than he'd ever seen it, almost brushing his shoulders as he combed his fingers through the tangled curls.

"I know it hurts. It'll get better," John whispered back. He wasn't talking about his leg, and they both knew it.

Sherlock allowed John's simple, comforting touches lull him to sleep, but couldn't help wondering what Jim was doing right at that moment as he drifted into slumber.

* * *

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**AN: **_Thanks for your patience (I'm hoping you have been patient with me). I tore a muscle in my leg, so sitting has been really hard for the past two weeks - hence the extreme lateness of this posting. Cosmic justice for stabbing Sherlock through the leg? I really hope not. _

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Please let me know … reviews, concrit, ideas … it's all good. _

_Again, effusive thanks to all who review, follow, and favorite the story. It really makes my day. Really._

_Finally, a special shout-out to my FF buddy who offered suggestions on how to proceed with this chapter and several to follow. You know who you are, lady. You ROCK!_

**DFTBA**


	25. Plans and Experimentation

**Plans and Experimentation**

"_But. We don't do … that."_

* * *

Moriarty watched the video feed on his iPad from the camera in Sherlock's bedroom as Sherlock struggled against John, wailing in distress.

Moriarty was leaning against Sebastian on his comfortable sofa in yet another of his secret homes. They all had the same design – lots of dark green, like the sofa, and light blue accents, along with his expensive Victorian-era furniture. He had very specific, very expensive tastes that Moran found a bit over-the-top, when he stopped to notice.

"Poor little lamb. He's so confused. It's positively delicious, isn't it?" Moriarty said gleefully.

"Yes, dear," Moran answered absently.

"Ahh, Sebs, be patient. Our little game starts again soon, you know." Moriarty stretched, then lay himself over Sebastian's lap, still holding the screen up to his face, engrossed in the video capturing Sherlock's misery.

Moran absently brushed his hand over Jim's hair, petting him like a cat. "I know, I know. But you know how I feel about drawing this out," he replied. "Aren't you getting bored, James?"

Moriarty watched as Sherlock fell asleep in John's arms. "Well, I am now," he said, tossing the iPad carelessly onto the mahogany table in front of the sofa.

"So enlighten me," Sebastian said. "What is this next mysterious and nefarious move in your little game with the detective?"

"My dear, it's too complicated to spell it out for you. I know you won't understand … " Jim said, glancing up at Moran with a devilish grin.

Moran slapped Jim's hand lightly. "None of that, now. I may not be a genius like you and him-" he pointed at the screen on the table, "but I'm not a simpleton. Just tell me, you sneaky bastard."

"Buzz-kill," Moriarty laughed, sitting up and slipping his hand between Sebastian's thighs. "I'll tell you, Sebs, but what will you give me in return, hmm?" His voice had taken on a slightly higher pitch, his eyes half-lidded as he stared at Moran's crotch.

"I'll make you forget all about your obsession with that beanstalk of a man," Moran teased. "I'll bugger you senseless. You know I can. Now out with it!" He finished by tickling Jim's ribs lightly.

"Deal," Moriarty giggled. "I'll give you a hint. Remember Carlo?"

Moran stopped tickling Moriarty and stiffened at the mention of the name. "What about that fucking tosser? I wish I'd been the one to kill him. I would have done it nice and slow, just for you, James."

"Yes, well, I appreciate the sentiment, but I got there first." Moriarty closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the memory of the man's screams. "My very first murder, and such a lovely one, too. So … satisfying."

"What about _him_, then?"

"Well, he had his way with little Sherlock too. I got over it, in a fantastically cathartic manner. Sherly simply tried to delete the whole thing. A dangerous proposition for someone with a memory like his. That's the thing about memories. You never can be sure they've gone – really gone – and they have a nasty habit of popping up at the most _inconvenient_ times."

"Thought you already used that one." Moran said, anger still coloring his voice. He hated the reminder of what Carlo had done to his beloved.

"Sebs!" Moriarty fairly squealed. "That was just the set up. There's ever so much more! He'll realize soon enough that I filled his head with silly notions about his friends and family, but he'll still try to push _that_ memory down. And I'll be there to bring it back up. Every lurid detail."

"And that's how you're going to drive him round the bend? Won't he manage to deal with it eventually?"

"Mmmmaybe," he drawled. "Anyway, there's much more to it than that. But I'm bored of talking about the little meddler. I'll tell you the rest after our session of buggery most foul. What do you say, my dearest? Plan to keep your promise?" He smiled up at Sebastian, pressing more firmly on his crotch, feeling the other man's arousal through his trousers.

Moran moaned quietly, pressing up into Moriarty's hand. "You know I do … "

* * *

Sherlock woke to the realization he was still lying back against John, daylight filtering in from behind the curtains. The room was cast in a dim glow, the icy rain pattering against the side of the building. He glanced over at the clock, noting he'd slept two hours. John had his back pressed halfway against the headboard. Sherlock found himself reasonably comfortable using John's chest as his pillow, his steady, rhythmic breathing indicating he was indeed asleep despite what must be an uncomfortable position. He lay with his legs on either side of Sherlock's, one arm resting on his, the other lightly against his chest.

He was still confused – perhaps more so – when he found he'd lain his uninjured arm across John's in his sleep. It felt right, being close to him, but that didn't jibe with what he knew of the man. At least, it didn't fit what Jim had told him, and what he'd believed without question.

Now, it seemed questions were all he had. If what Jim told him was the truth, why was he now so certain John wouldn't harm him? Certain enough that he'd fallen into a deep and restful sleep. Sherlock catalogued everything he'd eaten and drunk the past several days. No, he couldn't have been drugged; he'd been too careful for that. Besides, if anything, he felt more clear-headed now than he had in ages. He would have to test his assumptions. He hated the doubts now crowding his mind.

Once decided, he moved quietly and gradually, turning himself in John's arms until he faced the other man, a task made difficult by the thick wrapping and brace around his leg.

John was still asleep, a testament to his exhaustion built up over the past weeks. He thought he felt someone moving over him. In a sleepy haze, he rubbed his hand up and down the person over him, hoping they would go back to sleep. He wasn't ready to wake up yet, and drifted off hoping the woman he'd brought home wasn't either. She apparently had other ideas. John felt the body moving lower, pulling at the zip of his jeans. - _Worse ways to wake up. - _He stretched a bit to allow his jeans and pants to be lowered further. He slid his hands up into her thick, curly hair, cracking his eyelids open to look down as his cock was tugged out with slender fingers.

_- Wait. I didn't bring anyone home. Wait. Yes I did. Wait! _-

"What- what the hell?" John slapped his hands down on the bed, shoving himself back against the headboard.

"John?" Sherlock gazed up at him, his fingers creeping back toward the warmth between John's thighs.

"Sherlock!" John yanked his pants up over his half-hard cock, embarrassment coloring his cheeks pink. "What was that?" He pulled his jeans back on, quickly zipping them up. He stared down in shock at his friend, who hadn't moved from his spot between John's legs.

Sherlock was looking up at him now, the corner of his lower lip gently held in his teeth. "I was … umm … saying thank you?" He finally replied.

"Thank you!?" John moved his legs away, his back protesting as he quickly got out of the bed.

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, as if speaking to a very dull child. He paused at John's incredulous expression.

"Sherlock, if – if you wanted to thank me, you could make tea, or pick up the milk or … I don't know, buy me a card!"

"So … " Sherlock began, turning to his side to face John. "You prefer to be the one who … initiates contact?"

John scrubbed his hand through his hair, grimacing. "No! I mean, yes, but not with- not with you, Sherlock." He paused to think as the cobwebs cleared from his head. He heaved out a breath.

"Look, I'm sorry. I … I know you've been through a lot. I mean, even if you don't remember much of it. It's just that-" John remembered their first dinner at Angelo's, and said, "we're not a couple. Remember? I'm not gay. And you're, well, you're you. I have no idea if you like men or women or both or neither. And that's fine. But. We don't do … that," He finished, waving in the general direction of the bed. "We've never done that."

_- Conclusion: We were not intimate, willing or otherwise. Interesting. - _

"So, umm, that's settled," John said, pulling at his jumper. He stepped out of Sherlock's room, only to return a moment later, standing in the doorway. "Would you like tea and toast? You can stay in bed for now. I'll bring your pills as well, but you need to eat something before you take them."

Sherlock seemed to consider this for a moment. _- Time for the second experiment. - _"I'd prefer the sofa. No, I don't need help getting there."

"And tea sounds lovely, thanks."

* * *

**AN:** _Yeah, so this took me way too long, especially for a short chapter. _

_I have no idea why, except that I got YET ANOTHER cold. More to come, and barring illness or injury, a shorter wait for the next chapter._

**DFTBA**


	26. Nights and Nightmares

_**Hi.**_

_**This chapter is severely, unforgivably late, I know. I had a bit of a crisis of faith in my writing. Not fishing for compliments, that's just what happened. It's okay now, and I won't leave the story unfinished even if I'm not posting as often as I should. Thanks.**_

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**Nights and Nightmares**

_Will the real Sherlock Holmes please stand up?_

* * *

Sherlock managed to make his way out of bed and limped to the sofa to find a cup of tea already waiting for him. He stared at it for a few moments while John puttered in the kitchen, preparing his own tea. Finally, Sherlock decided there was no point staring at the tea. It was time to lay at least a few of his questions to rest.

He was sipping at it when John returned to the sitting room with a plate of toast he placed on the table in front of Sherlock. He set Sherlock's pills next to the plate, reminding him he'd have to eat the toast before he took them.

Sherlock only half-listened to John, trying to decide if the tea was affecting him in any way. So far, nothing. In actuality, it was quite good. He set the cup down and took a piece of toast from the plate.

He finished the toast and tea quickly, without complaint, and sat back on the couch. Sherlock noted he still didn't feel any different than he had before. He was deep in thought, trying to reconcile the conflicting information when he realized John was speaking to him.

"Hmm? What?"

"I asked if you were feeling better." John said.

"Oh. Yes. Yes, it's good to be home," Sherlock said, smiling brightly to maintain the ruse in case his instincts about John were wrong. He was surprised to find it was also true. - _That doesn't fit. This isn't my home. Is it? - _He shook his head to clear his thoughts. - _I need more data. -_

"So. About, um, earlier … " He tentatively began.

John looked up sharply from his tea. His lips parted, but he said nothing, waiting for Sherlock to continue.

He glanced at John, then quickly looked down. "Well, I - I mean, I don't know what I was thinking," Sherlock finished quietly.

"I'm sure you're still … confused. From your injuries, and whatever else went on while you were. You know. Away." John replied, his voice pitched as quietly as Sherlock's.

"Umm … yes, confused. I am. Confused, that is. About us," Sherlock said earnestly, looking up into John's eyes again.

"About us? What about us, Sherlock?" John didn't want to be having this conversation, but with Sherlock's memory loss he had suspected it was inevitable. Sherlock still wasn't acting like himself. From the events of the afternoon to the fact that Sherlock was smiling at him entirely too much. He was definitely hiding something, but what it was, John could only guess at.

Sherlock decided it was time to stop beating around the metaphorical bush. "What is – or was - the nature of our relationship? It seems we aren't lovers. What are we, then?"

"We're friends, Sherlock. Best friends. At least, you're my best friend, and I think the feeling is mutual. We're colleagues, and partners in crime … solving. Occasionally partners-in-crime – for a case, I mean," John finished quickly. "I think that about covers it."

"So we've never been sexually intimate?" Sherlock continued, undeterred.

"No. We have not," John said firmly. He refused to admit that for a moment, looking into Sherlock's eyes as he lay between his legs, he'd felt a shot of arousal tingling up his spine.

"Hmm," Sherlock said noncommittally. He stretched out as best he could on the sofa, staring across the room, lost in thought once more. - _No beatings. No sex. No drugging, as far as I can tell. None of this __**fits**__. Or maybe … none of what Jim said fits. I need to think. - _

"I'm going back to my room. I'm tired. Would you bring me a water?" He said suddenly, reaching for his crutches.

"Sure. Of course," John said. He picked up Sherlock's plate and cup and headed for the kitchen, listening as his friend moved to stand with his crutches. This time, he hadn't even bothered to offer his help. Sherlock did sound steadier on his feet now, more confident making his way across the flat to his room.

John pulled a bottle of water from the fridge and followed him, arriving at the door as Sherlock sat down on the bed, placing the crutches close by. The autumn weather cast the light in his room into dingy shadows as early evening crept towards night.

John handed him the water. Sherlock took it and closed his eyes for a moment, wearied from the exertion of walking to his room.

Suddenly, he stiffened, his back straight and shoulders tense._ – Water. Small room. Darkness. Fear. Pain. - _The bottle rolled from his numb fingers onto the floor as Sherlock stood swiftly, eyes still closed, forgetting his injury. Pain shot through his leg. His eyes opened wide and he gasped as he toppled sideways.

John leapt forward and grabbed Sherlock from behind, hoisting him up by his chest to prevent him from falling over onto his bandaged leg. Only when he'd pulled Sherlock back onto the bed did he notice the man was panting, shaking his head over and over. Sherlock pressed his palms to his temples while he sat, mumbling. His eyes were open and tracking from side to side, as Sherlock always did when he was intent on solving something. All John could hear clearly was a repeated "no, no, no, no" between words that sounded like "contract," "sea anemonae," "tar flake," then "front or back?" before he trailed off, moaning quietly.

"Sherlock. Can you hear me? Sherlock, what's happened?" _- Damn that concussion. We let him come home too soon. __**I**__ let him come home too soon. Tar flake? Was he remembering the destruction of the cottage? _- He took his friend gently by the shoulders, afraid of startling him again. To his surprise, Sherlock relaxed instantly, shoulders slumping as he met John's gaze.

"John."

That single word held so much relief it made John's chest hurt. "Yes, Sherlock, I'm here. I'm right here. Just lie back, now," he said, helping Sherlock move his leg onto the bed and settling him back into the pillows. John kept a hand on his shoulder once he was settled. "You've been pushing yourself too hard. You need rest. I'll just bring you a glass of water and your pain pills. You left them on the table. I'll be right back, okay?" John asked.

Sherlock looked utterly exhausted. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and nodded. John took the water bottle from the floor and went into the kitchen, where he took a few deep breaths of his own. Something about the _bottle_, of all things, had sent Sherlock reeling. John wondered again why he'd asked for so many of them in the first place, as he pulled a glass from the kitchen cupboard. He filled it with water from the bottle that had distressed his friend so much, carefully discarding it under the other trash in the bin.

John took the glass and went to the sitting room, retrieving Sherlock's pills before returning to him. He almost looked asleep, lying there on the bed, but his eyebrows were still knit together with anxiety. John desperately wanted to ask Sherlock what had happened, but held himself back. When Sherlock had settled a bit more, they could talk. At least, John hoped they would. He wanted his detective back, but once again, he would probably have to wait.

"Sherlock," he half-whispered, switching on the light.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He pushed himself into a sitting position and took the pills without comment, drinking half of the water before setting the glass down on his nightstand. He cocked his head to the side, observing John in silence for a few moments.

"John. I don't remember what happened to me. I – I don't know what's _happening_ to me," he said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "It seems like I'm starting to remember a little, but half of that is wrong, and the other half makes no sense. I have to understand. I _need_ to understand!" Sherlock's voice rose as he went on, nearly shouting his frustration by the time he stopped speaking. He looked at John pleadingly, as if he could somehow provide the answer.

John pulled the chair from the corner of the room to the side of Sherlock's bed and sat. He rubbed a hand through his hair, unconsciously mimicking Sherlock's movements. "Look, I wish I knew what to tell you, Sherlock. I mean, I know you won't see a therapist … " At this, Sherlock shot him a sour look, chin wrinkling with the force of his frown. "And I assume you've already tried searching your Mind Palace, so you'll just have to give it ti-"

"My what?" Sherlock interrupted, sitting up straighter.

John would have thought he was joking if he hadn't been staring at him so intensely. "You know, the place, or rather the technique you use to store all your memories. Or at least the ones you think are worth – hang on a minute. Jesus, Sherlock, do you really not remember _that?_"

"I … " Sherlock's brows drew together again as he tried to imagine what John was talking about, eyes darting back and forth as he wracked his brain. Eventually he focused on John again. "No. Nothing. I'm aware of the concept, of course. But no. It's not there. This is intolerable! Why can't I remember, John? Why?" He punctuated the last word by grabbing his water glass and hurling it at the wall, where it shattered just below his framed Periodic Table poster.

"Shit!" John shouted, leaping from his chair in surprise. He glanced over at the shards of glass on the floor, then back to Sherlock. In the time it took John to look away and back, all the anger had left the man sitting on the bed. He covered his face with his hands and slumped back onto the pillows, taking great gasping breaths, trying not to sob.

John sat at the edge of the bed and took Sherlock's wrists in his hands, gently pulling them from his face to look into Sherlock's eyes. "You will remember. I'm sure of it."

"You can't know that," Sherlock replied miserably, staring down at the sheets.

"Actually, I can. I know you, Sherlock. I know you can't stand leaving a puzzle unsolved. And believe me, you are very, _very_ good at solving puzzles." John released Sherlock's wrists and placed a hand on his shoulder instead. "I'll help you as much as I can. Just – don't give up, yeah?"

Sherlock slowed his breathing, and nodded his assent. He looked up at John, his reddened eyes turning his irises a vivid, stormy green. "Thank you."

John nodded curtly, his medical training coming to the fore. "First things first – you need more rest. Lots more. So get to sleep. Doctor's orders."

"John, it's barely past five!" Sherlock huffed.

John simply raised an eyebrow and stared at him.

"Fine." Sherlock laid back fully and pulled the sheets and blankets up.

"Good," John said. "I'm going to clean up the floor, then it's lights out."

"Yes, _Doctor,_" Sherlock said, his voice a mix of resignation and amusement as he dutifully closed his eyes.

* * *

After John had cleaned up the glass and turned off his light, Sherlock mulled over the day's events. Something nagged at him – several somethings, in fact. That John had not abused him was clear, and it cast everything Jim had told him into doubt.

What bothered him most was the idea that he'd had a "Mind Palace" to aid him in retaining his memories. He knew the method of loci, or memory palace techniques, but didn't remember using them. He made trying to rediscover it his first priority.

Sherlock hoped more than anything that finding this Mind Palace of his would clear the confusion and frustration he currently suffered. He sighed heavily, fighting his body's desire to sleep so early in the evening. It was such a waste of his time. His body demanded it rather insistently all the same. He slept. And then, he dreamed.

* * *

He was locked in a dark room, hands held behind his back. Someone was touching him, washing him rather roughly. He felt the cold air on his naked back, his stomach pressed into a hard surface – a chair, Sherlock realized. He heard a woman's voice grumbling at him about something. He knew that voice, but not the name.

Then he heard Moriarty _– Not Jim, no. Definitely not Jimmy. This man was neither friend nor lover. –_ He strained to understand the words. Something about reason? Yes.

He heard Moriarty's voice clearly now. What little affection he heard was horribly twisted, malformed into something cruel and entirely insane._ How dull is it to just make you my little data processor, Sherlock, when I could drive reason out of you? Now that's a challenge.'_

Sherlock felt himself falling to the floor, terror and rage pulling him inexorably down. When he opened his eyes again, he was standing before the wreckage of a massive estate. The rough-hewn stone blocks of the foundation littered the grounds, all the way up the hill to what had been an impressive … well, he didn't know what to call it. Castle? Fortress? It looked ancient.

Sherlock walked towards it, felt the breeze picking up, the cold biting at his arms. He wore black tracksuit trousers and a thin black T-shirt, his pale arms glaring against the dark fabric. He was barefoot and had nothing with him to protect against the elements. The sky was overcast with low, grey clouds. It looked as if snow would be coming soon. His feet propelled him forward to investigate the place quickly before it was blanketed in white.

Sherlock was tingling with cold and curiosity as he arrived at the site of the highest pile of rubble. Bits of the structure had remained intact, and there were pieces of smooth walls, clearly from inside the building resting at odd angles. One one there still hung a woven tapestry, ornate and detailed, its colors bright. He pulled himself up over the ruins, his feet numb, legs unsteady as he moved towards the tapestry.

He was nearly at the center of the ancient place when he saw it clearly.

John – _John –_ John! The stitching was artful and the image photorealistic in its detail. The smiling face stared back at him with affection and acceptance. Bemused. Understanding.

He turned in a circle, scanning the ruins for more. There was a cane stuck half-under a wooden beam. A photograph of two children, boy and girl, the mother's image torn off. The photograph was old, the frame new. There was a bullet hole dead center of the picture. He picked it up, looking through the hole. There was John, staring up at him placidly, in contrast to the implied violence on the photograph. Everything on the other side of the hole was in miniature, like a panoramic sugar egg at Easter. Except it wasn't, because the figures inside were moving. Sherlock saw himself walking beside John at a crime scene in the dark of night.

And then he was there, walking past buildings and panda cars, joking and laughing and talking about dim sum. He looked away from John to see Mycroft standing before him. His ever-present assistant was beside him, tapping away at a mobile phone in a frightful pink case. Sherlock was surprised at how calm he was, not threatened by Mycroft at all.

John and Sherlock kept walking. He felt grass under his bare feet, and looked up to see the ruins. He turned to speak to John, confused again.

"Why?" was all he could muster.

"Because you're an idiot," John replied contentedly, a small smile gracing his lips. "Plus, you can't tell the fortunes in those cookies, and you know it."

"I … can't. No, of course I can't, John."

John turned thoughtful, and put his hand on Sherlock's arm. It was warm, pushing the cold out of his body entirely. "When are you coming back, Sherlock?"

"When am I … ?" Sherlock stared into John's eyes, anxious now. "John, I'm right here."

"Noooo," John drawled patiently. "You're right there." He gestured toward the ruined building. "It's all in there, isn't it?"

Sherlock and John were now sitting cross-legged in the rubble, side by side, facing the tapestry. "It's quite good," John said, peering up at it. "Palace could do with a remodel, though."

"Oh." – _Oh!_ – "This is …" Sherlock trailed off.

"Don't be daft, Sherlock, what else would it be?" John told him. "So just clear all this up and you can come home, yeah? It's cold. You prefer Spring, don't you?"

The sky overhead changed, clouds clearing. The garden outside the walls sprang to life, roses blooming gold and scarlet. Tiny purple flowers dotted the rosemary hedgerows as they revived, encircling the garden . Sherlock looked down at himself and saw he was wearing a suit and greatcoat now, blue scarf around his neck comfortably.

"When are you coming back, Sherlock?" John asked again, urgently this time. "It's been so long. I miss you."

"But John, how … how?" Sherlock's brow furrowed in concentration as he turned his head, surveying the damaged structure.

"Now how would I know that? Click your heels three times or something. I dunno. Just do it. Make it happen. It's your mind, after all." John stood, and before Sherlock could join him, he disappeared. Sherlock looked up at the tapestry again. It was still John, but now he was standing, arms crossed, feet planted firmly at the bottom of the fabric. He smiled down at Sherlock, his face radiant.

"You can start here, if you like," John said.

* * *

Sherlock jolted awake, gasping. "Jhawn?" He called, his tongue heavy in his mouth, distorting the name. He shook his head. "John!" This was familiar. He'd done the same after he awoke from the drug The Woman gave him. And now he remembered her, and so, so much more. Vast expanses of memory, neatly arranged, all there at once. Stealing his breath away.

"John!" He cried out again, even though he could hear footsteps rapidly approaching his door.

John threw open the door. "Are you alright?" His posture radiated concern, silhouetted by the light spilling from the hallway. "Sherlock, can you hear me?" He said, stepping into the room.

Sherlock laughed, not answering. The similarities to what he'd remembered – _I remember! _- overwhelmed him. Laughter bubbled from him in high, giddy waves, and in that moment he couldn't care less.

"John!" He gasped between giggles.

John reached for the bedside lamp and turned it on. "I'm right here, Sherlock. Are you alright?" He asked again, standing at Sherlock's bedside. He had no idea what had happened. It was scary, but Sherlock's laughter was infectious, and it was all he could do not to join him. After all, this could be a bad sign. "Sherlock. Answer me!" The distress was back in his posture, his brows knit, mouth slightly open.

"John, John, John. Oh for god's sake, JOHN!" Sherlock sat up quickly, and John found himself wrapped in a tight hug around his stomach as Sherlock began rambling, his voice muffled as he pressed his face into John's shirt.

"John, it's fine, I'm fine, great, wonderful! I was – the Mind Palace, John. Mine! I found it, we found it, after the sugar egg panorama, the crime scene, and and you were there and Irene Adler and Henry Knight and Lestrade and Mycroft - I came back, John, I came back, you were my conductor of light, and I didn't click my heels or anything it was just there same as it ever was and John I want to play my violin and sit in my chair and shout at crap telly and -"

"Sherlock. Breathe," John ordered, feeling Sherlock's fingers grasping and releasing the back of his shirt again and again. "Look at me."

Sherlock shook his head against John's stomach, his giggles returning, holding tighter than ever, squeezing John's ribs uncomfortably.

"You don't have to let go, Sherlock, but just look at me, will you? You're kind of freaking me out right now. So if you could just slow down, a bit, I'd _really_ appreciate it."

Sherlock looked up into the steel blue eyes above him, resting his chin against John's stomach, relaxing his embrace slightly. His curls tumbled across his face, eyes wide and shining as he tried to get his breath back. He started to laugh again, but in the familiar rumbling baritone John knew better than anyone.

Sherlock finally cleared his throat, took a few more breaths. "It came back. I can remember. Everything. Gods, John, but it's brilliant. Marvelous. Well, not everything I remember is marvelous, that is, but I **can** remember, and it's positively stunningly beautifully _all there._"

John looked down at him, the beginnings of a smile on his face, but hesitation and doubt still etched his features.

Sherlock took another breath, released John, and attempted to compose himself enough to reassure his doctor that he wasn't completely starkers. "I know it's not like me to giggle, or embrace you like a child greeting his father at the door, but I'm not crazy, John. I just – the sensation of knowing, _really_ knowing, it's -" his eyes rolled towards the ceiling, lids drifting lazily shut for a few moments.

"Well, that's fantastic, isn't it?" John shifted awkwardly, a tentative smile on his lips. "Oh, what the hell," he said, leaning to hug Sherlock before standing back, gripping Sherlock lightly by the shoulders to look at him more closely. "That's fantastic. Really. Just … yeah." And he began to laugh, because he knew it was that or cry, and had cried enough for a lifetime already, hadn't he? He sat down on the bed, still chuckling, and let himself fully believe that Sherlock was finally back in every way.

"We should probably keep it down, a bit," John said after a few minutes more. "We've probably already woken Mrs. Hudson, I'm afraid, but maybe we can let Mrs. Turner and her 'married ones' sleep. It's -" he turned to look at the clock on the nightstand "- good god, it's nearly three in the morning!"

"Mmm. Well, then, perfect timing for a concerto, don't you think?" He grinned at John, his eyes gleaming wickedly.

"Umm … no."

"Oh come on, John. I've missed my violin terribly. Please, John?" Sherlock wheedled, favoring his friend with a pitiful expression.

"On one condition. Could you maybe not say my name _quite_ so often? You've said it about twenty times in the past ten minutes, and it's getting a little, well, unnerving."

"Certainly," Sherlock said seriously. - _It was only fifteen. -_

"Right," John said, heading for the kitchen. "I'll just put the kettle on. Meet you in the sitting room, then?"

"Of course. _John_," Sherlock called after him. "I'll be right there, _John_. Milky tea, please, _John_."

"Sherlock!" John called from the kitchen.

"Yes, _John_? What is it, _John_?" Sherlock replied, smiling as he shuffled out of bed and pulled his crutches under his arms as he stood. -_ And that's twenty. -_

"Git."

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* * *

**AN: **_So there's a bit of fluffy comfort for you. This isn't actually the end of the story, though it could be. I haven't decided if what's to come should be Part Two, or if I should just keep on with this one. What do you think? Does it even make a difference? Please let me know. I am also willing to accept gentle chiding for taking so damned long writing and posting this. Oy vey._

**DFTBA!**


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